There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

A poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound,
Without a care or trouble on your mind,
And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round,
And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind;
In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise
And a clatter on the deck above your crown,
And you'll head the corporal shout as he turns the picket out,
"There's another blessed horse fell down."

You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall,
A-leaning on the railings nearly dead,
And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall;
And you curse them as you tumble into bed.
Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, "Pass the word for Denny Moon,
There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown;"
And it's shove the others back, or he'll cripple half the pack;
"There's another blessed horse fell down."

And when the war is over and the fighting is all done,
And you're all at home with medals on your chest,
And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun
At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest;
As you lay in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep,
And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown,
Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, "It's nothing new,
It's another blessed horse fell down."