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Updated: May 6, 2025
Rolfie would climb on the table in the estaminet and sing numerous unprintable verses of his own, entitled "Oh, What a Merry Plyce is Hengland." The only redeeming feature of this song was the chorus, which everybody would roar out and which went like this: Cheer, ye beggars, cheer! Britannia rules the wave! 'Ard times, short times Never'll come agyne.
The division we relieved gave us hardly any instruction, but beat it on the hot foot, glad to get away and anxious to go before sun-up. As we settled down in our cosey danger spots I heard Rolfie, the frog-voiced baritone, humming one of his favorite coster songs: Oh, why did I leave my little back room in old Bloomsbury? Where I could live for a pound a week in luxury.
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