Blue Bard's Thunderclap





The bard was dressed in blue, and though his face was weathered with years of travel, his voice was strong and pure.

He stood on a little slope on the village green. A hundred murmuring revelers were below him, spread out on colorful blankets. Vendors (and a few pickpockets) strolled among the throng. Cheese, bread, wine, and beer were abundant, and the sky was incandescent in the springtime sunset.

Today, mothers smiled and did not shush squealing children. Today, young lovers scooted closer on blankets, or, oblivious to the bard and the entire world, kissed with abandon.

The bard had been singing pleasant melodies, letting his audience eat and drink, waiting for them to be in just the right mood for some real shenanigans.

The time was finally right. Suddenly, he strummed his mandolin once for attention and launched into a lively chant most of them knew from time in the Duke’s service, sung on many a long march. The throng roared approval and joined in...

What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
Early in the morning?

Clap him in leg irons ‘til he’s sober,
Clap him in leg irons ‘til he’s sober,
Clap him in leg irons ‘til he’s sober,
Early in the morning.

Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Early in the morning.

Now the crowd was smiling, and even children were clapping and bellowing along with him.

What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
Early in the morning?

Scrape him up and down with a rusty razor,
Scrape him up and down with a rusty razor,
Scrape him up and down with a rusty razor,
Early in the morning.

Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Early in the morning.

A dozen shirtless, tattooed old ruffians in kilts stood up and danced in a drunken circle.

What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
Early in the morning?

Tie him to an oak tree and then you flog him,
Tie him to an oak tree and then you flog him,
Tie him to an oak tree and then you flog him,
Early in the morning.

Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Early in the morning.

The ditty went on for many more stanzas, encouraging the drunkard’s comrades to:

Hit him on the head with a bag of hammers…
Slap him on the arse with a cat-o-nine-tails…
Roll him to the pub and get him drunker…
Send him to the healer and get some leeches…

And the final stanza echoed through the village like a baudy thunderclap.

What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
What shall we do with a drunken soldier,
Early in the morning?

Lay him in bed with the Old Duke's daughter,
Lay him in bed with the Old Duke's daughter,
Lay him in bed with the Old Duke's daughter,
Early in the morning.

Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Way, hey, up she rises!
Early in the morning.


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