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.