A tall stalwart lancer lay dying,
And as on his deathbed he lay
To his friends who around him were sighing
These last dying words he did say:

Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket
And say a poor buffer lies low
And six stalwart lancers shall carry me
With steps solemn, mournful and slow

Had I the wings of a little dove
Far far away would I fly; I'd fly
Straight for the arms of my true love
And there I would lay me and die

Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket
And say a poor buffer lies low
And six stalwart lancers shall carry me
With steps solemn, mournful and slow

Then get you two little white tombstones
Put them one at my head and my toe
And get you a penknife and scratch there:
"Here lies a poor buffer below."

Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket
And say a poor buffer lies low
And six stalwart lancers shall carry me
With steps solemn, mournful and slow

And get you six brandies and sodas
And set them all out in a row
And get you six jolly good fellows
To drink to this buffer below

Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket
And say a poor buffer lies low
And six stalwart lancers shall carry me
With steps solemn, mournful and slow

And then in the calm of the twilight
When the soft winds are whispering low
And the darkening shadows are falling
Sometimes think of this buffer below

Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket
And say a poor buffer lies low
And six stalwart lancers shall carry me
With steps solemn, mournful and slow