On a steam transport out of Malta

En route for the cold Crimea

A drummer-boy of the 68th

Who’d known neither love nor fear

When we arrived in Varna Before I could bang my drum

I was ordered aboard a hospital ship

For I had been overcome

By a sickness that proved worse than the guns

To which many would now succumb

We reached Scutari Hospital

Such a frightful sight I declare

Four miles of beds full of filth, blood and shit

With rats and lice everywhere

But then I beheld a vision

That made my young heart sing

A raven-haired angel took my hand

And took me under her wing

A nightingale flew down from heaven

And took me under her wing

From drummer-boy to errand-boy

I followed in her wake

Twenty hours with a lamp in her hand

Not one did she forsake

For they were all her darlings

Each and every one

And I bless the day that I became

Miss Nightingale’s Man

I became Miss Nightingale’s Man

There were fusiliers and carabiniers

Dragoons and ‘Cherry Bums’

Highlanders, Guards, Green Howards and Buffs

And many other mother’s sons

From Alma and Sevastapol

Balaclava and Inkermann

From frostbite and horrific wounds

There suffered many a man

But cholera was the worst of all

King Cholera ruled over all

Now in that awful nightmare

The Nightingale took stock

And as one born to lead by example

Inspired us ‘round the clock

We fed them on fresh vegetables

Wrapped each in a clean linen sheet

And despite the enormous task she faced

She would not accept retreat

She rose to every challenge and stole

And stole victory from defeat

From drummer-boy to errand-boy

I watched the death-rate fall

As with a fierce devotion

The Nightingale gave all

For they were all her darlings

Each and every one

And I bless the day that I became

Miss Nightingale’s Man

I became Miss Nightingale’s Man

Blessed are the merciful

Whose strength is to endure

Who selflessly care for the meek

Through motives good and pure

Many have come to thank her

For keeping them alive

After the surgeon had pronounced

“This one will not survive”

Whilst for a better system

She never ceased to campaign or strive

She became my patron

And she became my friend

She paid for my education

When the conflict came to an end

And despite all the words said against her

By those who were not there

Let them rot with gout in their own self-doubt

From the comfort of a soft armchair

For I saw it all through my own eyes

As Miss Nightingale’s Man

I was Miss Nightingale’s Man

From drummer-boy to errand-boy

I followed in her wake

Twenty hours with a lamp in her hand

Not one did she forsake

For they were all her darlings

Each and every one

And until the day I die, I am

I am Miss Nightingale’s Man

I am Miss Nightingale’s Man

One thing I will always be

Miss Nightingale’s Man

Miss Nightingale’s Man

(Gary Miller)

© 2018 Whippet Records

Copyright Control MCPS/PRS

The true story of drummer-boy Robert Robinson who became Florence Nightingale's errand boy, and later protege, during the Crimean War. The song was written as part of Gary's 'From Coalfield to Battlefield' project, which developed directly through 'When the Bugle Calls', a DLI Collection touring exhibition by the DLI Research and Study Centre. 

Also as part of these respective linked projects, Gary's creative partner, artist, designer and illustrator Helen Temperley has produced an illustration to accompany the song (image coming soon).

Other songs from the project 'From Coalfield to Battlefield' include : - 'Ballad of Lance-Sergeant William Stones', 'Euphonium and Cornet', 'The Durham Light Infantry', 'The Final Letter of Jimmy Durham'.