Coughing and sneezing
Wishing I were dead
No angel of mercy
At the foot of my bed
Suffering I’m here
In a room cold and damp
While you’re in the Crimea
Swanning round with a lamp
Comforting soldiers
Who thrill to your beauty
Your nursing skills
Your devotion to duty
O Florence it happens
Again and again
As soon as I’m poorly
You’re on the next train
To some distant frontier
The far-flunger the better
Where you send a ‘Get well’ card
The occasional letter
O Florrie, I’m sorry
But this is my prayer:
To charge with the Light Brigade
And expire in your care.