Here is a song the pilots from the First World War used to sing.Its pretty morose. I figured you guys would get a kick out of it. It makes a good drinking song otherwise
DISCLAIMER: I in no way endorse underage drinking/alcoholism. Enjoy.
A POOR AVIATOR LAY DYING
(First World War Version, trad)
Tune: My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean
A poor aviator lay dying
At the end of a bright summer's day
His comrades had gathered about him
To carry his fragments away
The airplane was piled on his wishbone
His Hotchkiss was wrapped round his head
He wore a spark-plug on each elbow
'Twas plain he would shortly be dead
He spit out a valve and a gasket
And stirred in the sump where he lay
And then to his wondering comrades
These brave parting words he did say
"Take the magneto out of my stomach,
And the butterfly valve off my neck,
Extract from my liver the crankshaft,
There are lots of good parts in this wreck"
"Take the manifold out of my larynx,
And the cylinders out of my brain,
Take the piston rods out of my kidneys,
And assemble the engine again."
Pull the longeron out of my backbone,
The turnbuckle out of my ear (my ear).
From the small of my back take the rudder-
There's all of your aeroplane here.
I'll be riding a cloud in the morning,
With no rotary before me to cuss (to cuss).
Take the lead from your feet and get busy,
Here's another lad needing the bus!
Take the bullet from out of my shoulder,
Take the shrapnel out of my brain,
And the pom-pom from out of my liver,
And patch up the turret again
I’ll be riding a cloud in the morning,
No more this gun turret to cuss,
So please patch me up in my shroud,
For I’ll not be needing this bus
So hold all your glasses steady,
And let’s drink a toast to the sky,
For here’s to the dead already,
And here’s to the next man to die
Oh, had I the wings of a little dove,
Far a-way, far a-way would I fly, I fly,
Straight to the arms of my true-love,
And there would I lay me and die.
Then get you two little white tombstones,
Put them one at my head and my toe, my toe,
And get you a penknife and scratch there,
“Here lies a poor pilot below.”
And when at the Court of Enquiry
They ask for the reason I died, I died,
Please say I forgot twice iota
Was the minimum angle of glide.
SIDNAY NOTE:
An alternate chorus is:
"Two drive shafts you'll find in my stomach,
three spark plugs are safe in my lung,
the prop is in splinters inside me,
to my fingers the joystick is clung.
Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,
the connecting rods out of my brain,
from the small of my back take the crankshaft,
and assemble the engine again!"
~ the Anachronism Guild ~
The guild for lovers of Steampunk, other Anachronisms and the Victorian Age — be you Dashing Adventurer or Airship Pirate, all are welcome!
![]() |
|
|||||
|
||||||
|
//
//
//
//
//
Have an account? Login Now!
