The Sergeant Major
I'll always remember Granpa Shreeves
No collar,braces and rolled up sleeves,
Leather buckled trouser belt;
Number forty-six with Gran he dwelt.
A curled up moustache,
His manner stiff and harsh;
Horse artillery in a younger day
A shilling a day his rate of pay.
His hens roamed at the end of the patch
Each day free to root and scratch;
Collecting eggs from his homemade coop
His aging back acquired a stoop.
Fresh,brown and range free
Daily for breakfast or tea;
He killed a chicken as a special treat,
Plucking now a forgotten feat.
A waist-coated old stager
Known to all as the Sargeant Major;
Old fashioned,a bit of a tartar-
Made my Gran a domestic martyr.
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