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(Mounted Infantry of the Line)
I WISH my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm, | |
| And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm, | |
| Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you could n’t buy. | |
| I used to be in the Yorkshires once | |
| (Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once), | 5 |
| Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.) | |
| But now I am M. I. | |
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| That is what we are known as—that is the name you must call | |
| If you want officers’ servants, pickets an’ ’orseguards an’ all— | |
| Details for buryin’-parties, company-cooks or supply— | 10 |
| Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the —— 1 M. I.! | |
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| My ’ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an’ frill, | |
| An’ the things I’ve used my bay’nit for would make a tinker ill! | |
| An’ I don’t know whose dam’ column I’m in, nor where we’re trekkin’ nor why. | |
| I’ve trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once— | 15 |
| From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once— | |
| (Or else it was called the Zambesi once)— | |
| For now I am M. I. | |
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| That is what we are known as—we are the push you require | |
| For outposts all night under freezin’, an’ rearguard all day under fire. | 20 |
| Anything ’ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry? | |
| Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the —— M. I.! | |
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| Our Sergeant-Major’s a subaltern, our Captain’s a Fusilier— | |
| Our Adjutant’s “late of Somebody’s ’Orse,” an’ a Melbourne auctioneer; | |
| But you couldn’t spot us at ’arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry. | 25 |
| They used to talk about Lancers once, | |
| Hussars, Dragoons, an’ Lancers once, | |
| ’Elmets, pistols, an’ carbines once, | |
| But now we are M. I.! | |
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| That is what we are known as—we are the orphans they blame | 30 |
| For beggin’ the loan of an ’ead-stall an’ makin’ a mount to the same. | |
| ’Can’t even look at their ’orselines but some one goes bellerin’ “Hi! | |
| “’Ere comes a burglin’ Ikona!” Footsack you —— M. I.! | |
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| We’re trekkin’ our twenty miles a day an’ bein’ loved by the Dutch, | |
| But we don’t hold on by the mane no more, nor lose our stirrups—much; | 35 |
| An’ we scout with a senior man in charge where the ’oly white flags fly. | |
| We used to think they were friendly once, | |
| Didn’t take any precautions once | |
| (Once, my ducky, an’ only once!) | |
| But now we are M. I.! | 40 |
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| That is what we are known as—we are the beggars that got | |
| Three days “to learn equitation,” an’ six months o’ bloomin’ well trot! | |
| Cow-guns, an’ cattle, an’ convoys—an’ Mister De Wet on the fly— | |
| We are the rollin’ Ikonas! We are the —— M. I. | |
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| The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin’ vain V. C.’s | 45 |
| (The same as your talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes), 2 | |
| But our words o’ command are “Scatter” an’ “Close” an’ “Let your wounded lie.” | |
| We used to rescue ’em noble once,— | |
| Givin’ the range as we raised ’em once, | |
| Gettin’ ’em killed as we saved ’em once— | 50 |
| But now we are M. I. | |
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| That is what we are known as—we are the lanterns you view | |
| After a fight round the kopjes, lookin’ for men that we knew; | |
| Whistlin’ an’ callin’ together, ’altin’ to catch the reply:— | |
| “’Elp me! O ’elp me, Ikonas! This way, the —— M. I.!” | 55 |
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| I wish my mother could see me now, a-gatherin’ news on my own, | |
| When I ride like a General up to the scrub and ride back like Tod Sloan, | |
| Remarkable close to my ’orse’s neck to let the shots go by. | |
| We used to fancy it risky once | |
| (Called it a reconnaissance once), | 60 |
| Under the charge of an orf’cer once, | |
| But now we are M. I.! | |
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| That is what we are known as—that is the song you must say | |
| When you want men to be Mausered at one and a penny a day; | |
| We are no five-bob Colonials—we are the ’ome-made supply, | 65 |
| Ask for the London Ikonas! Ring up the —— M. I.! | |
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| I wish myself could talk to myself as I left ’im a year ago; | |
| I could tell ’im a lot that would save ’im a lot on the things that ’e ought to know! | |
| When I think o’ that ignorant barrack-bird, it almost makes me cry. | |
| I used to belong in an Army once | 70 |
| (Gawd! what a rum little Army once), | |
| Red little, dead little Army once! | |
| But now I am M. I.! | |
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| That is what we are known as—we are the men that have been | |
| Over a year at the business, smelt it an’ felt it an’ seen. | 75 |
| We ’ave got ’old of the needful—you will be told by and by; | |
| Wait till you’ve ’eard the Ikonas, spoke to the old M. I.! | |
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| Mount—march, Ikonas! Stand to your ’orses again! | |
| Mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain. | |
| Out go the stars in the dawnin’, up goes our dust to the sky, | 80 |
| Walk—trot, Ikonas! Trek jou, 3 the old M. I.! | |
