Yangchow songs.
Sung to the tune of:- “Sweet and Low”
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
C.A.C., C.A.C., Civil Assembly Centre,
C.A.C., you and me, why did we ever enter?
People on top of you morn, noon and night,
Days full of boredom and nights without light,
Ah for a home of our own dears!
Home, my pretty ones, home my handsome ones, home!
C.A.C., C.A.C., Yangchow in Kiangsu, China,
C.A.C., for you and me, where would we get a finer?
Lunghwa or Pootung, Chapei or Wiehoien,
May be much larger or boast of far more men,
Yangchow’s the place for me dears,
Me, my pretty ones, yes, my handsome ones, me!
C.A.C., C.A.C., “C” Camp, Yangchow for me dears,
C.A.C. You and me, where would we rather be dears!
We want no shift till the peace trumpet sounds,
Till that great day, then, we’ll stick to these grounds,
That day’s just round the corner,
Blow, my trumpeter, blow, sweet trumpeter, blow!
Sung to the tune of:- “Marching thro’ Georgia”
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
Let us pull together in this Yangchow C.A.C.
Worthy of our Empire and its world wide unity.
Our feet may be imprisoned, but our hearts are ever free
While we are camping in Yangchow!
Hurrah! Hurrah! We sing of liberty!
Hurrah! Hurrah! Some day we shall be free!
When we pack our baggage and we leave this Camp “C”,
Saying Goodbye to our Yangchow!
Sung to the tune of:- “D’ye ken John Peel”
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
D’ye ken Yangchow and it’s folk so gay?
D’ye ken Yangchow where the British stay?
D’ye ken Yangchow, Camp “C”, “B” and “A”?
Where I found I’d arrived one morning.
Chorus:
Come cheer up good friends of this company,
Let us live here together in harmony,
Yangchow’s our home till we’re all set free
And our ship sails away in the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow and the billets there,
With old Joe Evans a-tearing his hair?
If you’ve forty square feet and a breath of fresh air
You’d better stay put in the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow when the weather’s fine
And the bell tolls loudly at ten to nine,
While the captains number us down the line
At roll call parade in the morning?
D’ye ken Yangchow and the trees it grows
Poplar and Ginko and Guelder Rose
With it’s orioles, cuckoos, it’s hawks and crows
Our reveille at dawn every morning?
D’ye ken Yangchow and it’s labour squads,
It’s cooks and stokers a sight for the gods?
If you say “S.O.S” then it’s heavy odds,
You’ll be right with your guess in the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow where we bake our bread,
And knead our dough till we’re nearly dead?
But a thousand and a half have got to be fed,
So we’ll work all night till the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow and it’s fine canteen
With it’s peanut brittle and Ruby Queen?
My account sheet shows I’ve still a bean
But there’s nought to be bought in the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow and it’s soft-ball teams
Its boys and girls with their charming beams?
They slog and run till they split their seams
So you’d better look out in the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow and it’s showers so grand
With room for forty or more to stand?
You’d better take a pail in your hand
Or you’ll stay bone dry till the morning!
D’ye ken Yangchow with its Public Meet
With the Governing Board in the big front seat?
You can ask “Why” and “What” on a paper sheet
If you give the big Knobs plenty of warning!
D’ye ken Yangchow and its Hospital,
With its doctors tall and its nurses swell?
If you stay for a month then you might get well,
When you’ve climbed the back stairs in the morning!
Yes I ken Yangchow and its folk so gay
Hardman and Longhurst and J.E.Gray,
And Skipper Grant from the B.R.A.
With his whistle and his shout in the morning!
Then here’s to Yangchow and the friends I’ve made
As I worked with a dipper or broom or spade,
That the lessons learned there may never fade
Is the prayer of my heart in the morning!
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
Chorus
We’re going Home! We’re going Home!
We’re on the road that leads to Home,
We’ve had enough of living rough
And now we want the real stuff, at Home Sweet Home
No more queuing for Yangchow stew,
No more sharing a room with you.
No more drinking from cheap tin mugs,
No more hunting for elusive bugs,
No more ichi and no more Ku,
No more roll call and whistle too!
Chorus
No more stokers nor labour squads,
No more pleasing six hundred odd,
No more sitting on wobbly chairs,
No more yelling for shoe repairs,
No more saving up rags for mops,
No more dodging the fierce camp cops.
For there is no place like Home, there’s no place like Home
Chorus
No more dou fu and no more yams,
No tombolas for canteen jams,
No more ointments supplied in shells,
No more fishing for tins in wells,
No more millions of C.R..B.
No more baking for the military
For there’s no place like Home, there’s no place like home,
Chorus.
(Written by F.J. Myerscough. Yangchow 1943)
If you can queue and not be tired of queuing,
But let the man behind you take your place,
And if some blustering fellow elbows forward,
Just turn to him a happy smiling face.
If you can keep your temper and your patience
And stand for hours beside the canteen door,
Hoping to have a share of peanut butter,
And only getting clothes pegs-nothing more.
If you can keep the rest hour in your bedroom,
And let your weary neighbour have a snooze,
And never make a noise to rouse his anger,
Nor clatter up and down in wooden shoes.
If you can do your duty in the kitchen,
And slicing onions never shed a tear,
And never come too late or leave too early,
But quietly do your job ‘till it is clear.
If you can stand at roll call every morning,
And strive to please the guards with all your might,
If you can wear your shorts just not too lengthy,
Nor yet so short to be out of sight.
If you can love your neighbour like a brother,
And yet not love his sister to excess,
And live your life in perfect moderation,
And loving brunettes love the blondes no less.
If you can speak and never use a swear word,
If you can feed and not make food your aim,
If you can learn your Russian, French and German,
And learn to speak good English just the same.
If you can be contented with your rations,
And always find you’ve got a bit to spare,
If you can eat your S.O.S. with relish,
As though it was a plate of caviar.
Yours is the Camp and everything that’s in it.
And you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.
Sung to the tune of:- “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?”
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
What shall we do with a Yangchow camper?
What shall we do with a Yangchow camper?
What shall we do with a Yangchow camper?
When we find he’s naughty.
Oh my, what a business!
Dear me, what a headache!
How shall we solve the problem
Of the naughty camper?
Tell the police or his own Group Captain,
Notify the Discipline Committee
Threaten him with the Governing Body
If he will not heed you.
Dock his account in the Canteen ledger,
Fine him a couple of hundred dollars,
Stop his “perks” and his private cooking,
Post his name on a black list!
Draw six names frae a hat says Scottie,
Only six names frae a jury panel,
Gude enough at least for a murder trial,
Awa wi a’ your committee!
What shall we do with our naughty youngsters,
Boys of the cracked wheat age or under?
What shall we do with our wicked striplings,
When we find they’re naughty?
Give ‘em six of the best says Begley
Six good strokes of the cane says Matthews,
Quite O.K. says the Governing Body
Make their parents spank them!
“No jolly fear, not I” says Papa
“Oh my poor wee boy” says Mama,
“They might even die” says Popple,
“If we spanked too hardly”!!!
Stop all their games and their soft-ball matches,
Keep them away from the Wednesday Camp-fire,
Cut out their Saturday evening dances
Then perhaps they’ll feel it.
“Let them pull up weeds” says Truman,
“Make them carry bricks” says Denton
Put ‘em on fatigue in a smoky kitchen.
That will surely larn ‘em.!!”
My advice to my fellow campers,
Only hope for this weighty problem,
Is for all to behave like brothers,
We’re dished if we start to be naughty!
Sung to the tune of:- Darkies Sunday School
(Written by Dr. Keith H. Gillison between 1942-45)
Old folks, young folks, everybody come,
Pull your camp chairs in and make yourselves at home,
Kiddies bring your chewing gum and sit down on the floor,
And we’ll tell you better rumours than you’ve ever heard before…
I heard a fellow saying as I swept the passage through,
That Haile Selassie’s army has landed in Peru,
He’d heard some people talking in the middle of the night
In fact he knows its true, as it’s down in black and white.
The third despatch of parcels from our good friend U.S.A.
Arrived in Vladivostock, a week ago today,
Mrs. Dent’s been interviewed, and Mrs. Hall too.
So I guess you guys had best believe that that’s sure true.
A church residing lady says the invoices are in,
Her daughter saw the parcel man; he’s looking very thin,
The table-lifters’ calculation cannot be denied,
In fact the jolly parcels are just outside.
I went to ask a lady if a tub she’ll lend,
She said she’d had a letter from a Pootung friend,
All the men in camp from 17 to 72,
According to this letter were to go to Timbuctoo!
Last evening in my billet, I thought myself alone,
When I heard somebody saying in an undertone,
That all the loose women with no man attached,
Are to go to the office and get themselves matched.
Father Thornton tells me that he heard a man let fall,
The news that Yankee forces are attacking Donegal,
It seems they want the Blarney Stone, but struggle as they may,
He’s confident his countrymen will drive the foes away.
(Camp Song) (Anonymous)
We’re going to sail away, sail away,
We know Internment here will end some day,
We’ve got no dough, but we’re going to go,
Back to the land that we all love so,
We’re going to sail away, sail away,
And the day of freedom we regain,
There’ll be happy hearts and free,
When we’re putting out to sea,
Afloat on a boat on the way back home again.