THE OLD-TIMER

I’m far away from the maddening crowd, away from the city’s din

Up in the hills where you breathe God’s air and you haven’t got time to sin

For I’m up in the morning early and it’s still dark when we call a stop

I’m swinging a gun with the Old Brigade, up in the Pigeon Top

Maybe it’s not what a man should do, when war is the modern game,

But I’ve done my bit in my youthful days, and I dare you to whisper “Shame”

So I turn my face to the paths of peace, and the ways of youth I’ll drop –

But there’s music still in the sounds of the guns, up on the Pigeon Top.

The world has changed since I was young, the people are not the same

‘Tis maybe an old man’s fancy, but there’s some don’t play the game.

I don’t understand the young folk’s way or their style of talking “ Shop”

And yet, I can tell what the Moorcocks say, up on the Pigeon Top.

I’m growing old, but I don’t complain. It was never the Sportsmans way

But I sometimes wish I was young again just for one glorious day

To swing a gun as I used to do and partake of the cheering drop,

I would show the youngsters a thing or two, up on the Pigeon Top.

I’m happy here, and I sometimes think it’s good to be alive

My heart is as big at seventy as it was at twenty-five.

So I’ll march along with the Old Brigade, till the MASTER signals “STOP”

Then I’ll say goodbye, till we meet again, old pals of the Pigeon Top.