Time for a bit of 'slush' I think [or is it 'gush'?]

The Men in Blue

When Nurse is pleased, and I’ve been good,

And not sat playing with my food,

Or smeared the nursery window pane,

Or put coal in my luggage train,

The thing she always lets me do

Is go to see the men in blue.

I used to look in thro’ the gate,

But that’s been boarded up of late;

But this I do not really mind,

For from the railway bank I find

That I can get a splendid view

Of lots and lots of men in blue.

When I fall down and cut my knees,

Or give my finger such a squeeze,

I shut my eyes, and think about

The wounded I’ve seen sitting out.

Nurse says if I don’t cry, it’s true

I’m being like the men in blue.

And once we saw a funeral go –

There was a band – it went so slow –

It made me feel all queer inside;

But oh, I wish, when I have died,

That they would only give me, too,

A funeral like the men in blue.

Sometimes my daddy talks to me

Of battles fought on land and sea

By gallant men in days of old;

But yet, he says, when all is told,

No men our history ever knew

Were braver than our men in blue.

He tries to make me understand –

A torch goes on from hand to hand;

The men of old kept it alight,

And passed it down, still burning bright.

And I, when my own turn comes due,

Must take it from the men in blue.

H. M. NIGHTINGALE