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(Infantry in India)
WE’VE got the cholerer in camp—it’s worse than forty fights; | |
| We’re dyin’ in the wilderness the same as Isrulites; | |
| It’s before us, an’ be’ind us, an’ we cannot get away, | |
| An’ the doctor’s just reported we’ve ten more to-day! | |
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| Oh, strike your camp an’ go, the bugle’s callin’, | 5 |
| The Rains are fallin’— | |
| The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ’em safe below. | |
| The Band’s a-doin’ all she knows to cheer us; | |
| The Chaplain’s gone and prayed to Gawd to ’ear us— | |
| To ’ear us— | 10 |
| O Lord, for it’s a-killin’ of us so! | |
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| Since August, when it started, it’s been stickin’ to our tail, | |
| Though they’ve ’ad us out by marches an’ they’ve ’ad us back by rail; | |
| But it runs as fast as troop trains, and we cannot get away, | |
| An’ the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day. | 15 |
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| There ain’t no fun in women nor there ain’t no bite to drink; | |
| It’s much too wet for shootin’; we can only march and think; | |
| An’ at evenin’, down the nullahs, we can ’ear the jackals say, | |
| “Get up, you rotten beggars, you’ve ten more to-day!” | |
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| ’T would make a monkey cough to see our way o’ doin’ things— | 20 |
| Lieutenants takin’ companies an’ Captains takin’ wings, | |
| An’ Lances actin’ Sergeants—eight file to obey— | |
| For we’ve lots o’ quick promotion on ten deaths a day! | |
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| Our Colonel’s white an’ twitterly—’e gets no sleep nor food, | |
| But mucks about in ’orspital where nothing does no good. | 25 |
| ’E sends us ’eaps o’ comforts, all bought from ’is pay— | |
| But there aren’t much comfort ’andy on ten deaths a day. | |
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| Our Chaplain’s got a banjo, an’ a skinny mule ’e rides, | |
| An’ the stuff he says an’ sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides! | |
| With ’is black coat-tails a-bobbin’ to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay! | 30 |
| ’E’s the proper kind o’ padre for ten deaths a day. | |
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| An’ Father Victor ’elps ’im with our Roman Catholicks— | |
| He knows an ’eap of Irish songs an’ rummy conjurin’-tricks; | |
| An’ the two they works together when it comes to play or pray. | |
| So we keep the ball a-rollin’ on ten deaths a day. | 35 |
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| We’ve got the cholerer in camp—we’ve got it ’ot an’ sweet. | |
| It ain’t no Christmas dinner, but it’s ’elped an’ we must eat; | |
| We’ve gone beyond the funkin’, ’cause we’ve found it doesn’t pay, | |
| An’ we’re rockin’ round the Districk on ten deaths a day! | |
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| Then strike your camp an’ go, the Rains are fallin’, | 40 |
| The Bugle’s callin! | |
| The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ’em safe below! | |
| An’ them that do not like it they can lump it, | |
| An’ them that can not stand it they can jump it; | |
| We’ve got to die somewhere—some way—some’ow— | 45 |
| We might as well begin to do it now! | |
| Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow, | |
| Knock out the pegs an’ ’old the corners—so! | |
| Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an’ stow! | |
| Oh, strike—oh, strike your camp an’ go! | 50 |
| (Gawd ’elp us!) | |
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