Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads

TOMLINSON

  Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,  And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair —  A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away,  Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way:  Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease,  And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys.  “Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high  The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die —  The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!”   And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone.  “O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide,  And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.”   – “For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair,  But now ye wait at Heaven’s Gate and not in Berkeley Square:  Though we called your friend from his bed this night, he could not speak  for you,  For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two.”   Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there,  For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare:  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,  And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life.  “This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me,  And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.”   The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path,  And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath.  “Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said, “and the tale is  yet to run:  By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer – what ha’ye done?”   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore,  For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven’s Gate before: —  “O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say,  And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.”   – “Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack! Ye have hampered  Heaven’s Gate;  There’s little room between the stars in idleness to prate!  O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin  Through borrowed deed to God’s good meed that lies so fair within;  Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run,  And…the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!”  The Spirit gripped him by the hair, and sun by sun they fell  Till they came to the belt of Naughty Stars that rim the mouth of Hell:  The first are red with pride and wrath, the next are white with pain,  But the third are black with clinkered sin that cannot burn again:  They may hold their path, they may leave their path, with never a soul to mark,  They may burn or freeze, but they must not cease in the Scorn of the Outer Dark.  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it nipped him to the bone,  And he yearned to the flare of Hell-Gate there as the light of his own hearth-stone.  The Devil he sat behind the bars, where the desperate legions drew,  But he caught the hasting Tomlinson and would not let him through.  “Wot ye the price of good pit-coal that I must pay?” said he,  “That ye rank yoursel’ so fit for Hell and ask no leave of me?  I am all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that ye should give me scorn,  For I strove with God for your First Father the day that he was born.  “Sit down, sit down upon the slag, and answer loud and high  The harm that ye did to the Sons of Men or ever you came to die.”   And Tomlinson looked up and up, and saw against the night  The belly of a tortured star blood-red in Hell-Mouth light;  And Tomlinson looked down and down, and saw beneath his feet  The frontlet of a tortured star milk-white in Hell-Mouth heat.  “O I had a love on earth,” said he, “that kissed me to my fall,  And if ye would call my love to me I know she would answer all.”   – “All that ye did in love forbid it shall be written fair,  But now ye wait at Hell-Mouth Gate and not in Berkeley Square:  Though we whistled your love from her bed tonight, I trow she would not run,  For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!”   The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,  And Tomlinson took up the tale and spoke of his sin in life: —  “Once I ha’ laughed at the power of Love and twice at the grip of the Grave,  And thrice I ha’ patted my God on the head that men might call me brave.”   The Devil he blew on a brandered soul and set it aside to cool: —  “Do ye think I would waste my good pit-coal on the hide of a brain-sick fool?  I see no worth in the hobnailed mirth or the jolthead jest ye did  That I should waken my gentlemen that are sleeping three on a grid.”   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and there was little grace,  For Hell-Gate filled the houseless Soul with the Fear of Naked Space.  “Nay, this I ha’ heard,” quo’  Tomlinson, “and this was noised abroad,  And this I ha’ got from a Belgian book on the word of a dead French lord.”   – “Ye ha’ heard, ye ha’ read, ye ha’ got, good lack! and the tale begins  afresh —  Have ye sinned one sin for the pride o’ the eye or the sinful lust of the  flesh?”   Then Tomlinson he gripped the bars and yammered, “Let me in —  For I mind that I borrowed my neighbour’s wife to sin the deadly sin.”   The Devil he grinned behind the bars, and banked the fires high:  “Did ye read of that sin in a book?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”   The Devil he blew upon his nails, and the little devils ran,  And he said: “Go husk this whimpering thief that comes in the guise of a man:  Winnow him out ‘twixt star and star, and sieve his proper worth:  There’s sore decline in Adam’s line if this be spawn of earth.”  Empusa’s crew, so naked-new they may not face the fire,  But weep that they bin too small to sin to the height of their desire,  Over the coal they chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad,  As children rifle a caddis-case or the raven’s foolish hoard.  And back they came with the tattered Thing, as children after play,  And they said:  “The soul that he got from God he has bartered clean away.  “We have threshed a stook of print and book, and winnowed a chattering wind  And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot find:  We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have seared him to the bone,  And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul of his own.”   The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled deep and low: —  “I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that I should bid him go.  “Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave him place,  My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face;  They’d call my house a common stews and me a careless host,  And – I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost.”   The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame,  And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name: —  “Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry:  Did ye think of that theft for yourself?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”   The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care: —  “Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,” he said, “but the roots of sin are there,  And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord alone.  But sinful pride has rule inside – and mightier than my own.  “Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore:  Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they’d torture sore.  “Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,” he said;       “ye are neither book nor brute —  Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of Man’s repute.  “I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that I should mock your pain,  But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back again.  Get hence, the hearse is at your door – the grim black stallions wait —  They bear your clay to place today.  Speed, lest ye come too late!  Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed – go back with an open eye,  And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die:  That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one —  And…the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!”* * * * * * *

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

Dedication

To T. A.

           I have made for you a song,           And it may be right or wrong,       But only you can tell me if it’s true;           I have tried for to explain           Both your pleasure and your pain,       And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!           O there’ll surely come a day           When they’ll give you all your pay,       And treat you as a Christian ought to do;           So, until that day comes round,           Heaven keep you safe and sound,       And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!– R. K.

DANNY DEEVER

  “What are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade.  “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.  “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.  “I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.      For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,      The regiment’s in ‘ollow square – they’re hangin’ him today;      They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,      An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.  “What makes the rear-rank breathe so ‘ard?” said Files-on-Parade.  “It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.  “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.  “A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ‘im round,      They ‘ave ‘alted Danny Deever by ‘is coffin on the ground;      An’ ‘e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound —      O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!  “‘Is cot was right-’and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.  “‘E’s sleepin’ out an’ far tonight”, the Colour-Sergeant said.  “I’ve drunk ‘is beer a score o’ times”, said Files-on-Parade.  “‘E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone”, the Colour-Sergeant said.      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ‘im to ‘is place,      For ‘e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look ‘im in the face;      Nine ‘undred of ‘is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,      While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.  “What’s that so black agin’ the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.  “It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life”, the Colour-Sergeant said.  “What’s that that whimpers over’ead?” said Files-on-Parade.  “It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now”, the Colour-Sergeant said.      For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ‘ear the quickstep play,      The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;      Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer today,      After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

TOMMY

  I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,  The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”   The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,  I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:      O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;      But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,      The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,      O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.  I went into a theatre as sober as could be,  They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;  They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,  But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!      For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;      But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,      The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,      O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.  Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;  An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit  Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.      Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”       But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,      The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,      O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.  We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,  But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;  An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,  Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;      While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that,           an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,      But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”,           when there’s trouble in the wind,      There’s trouble in the wind, my boys,           there’s trouble in the wind,      O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”,           when there’s trouble in the wind.  You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:  We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.  Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face  The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.      For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”       But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;      An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;      An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!FUZZY-WUZZY  (Soudan Expeditionary Force)  We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,    An’ some of ‘em was brave an’ some was not:  The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;    But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.  We never got a ha’porth’s change of ‘im:    ‘E squatted in the scrub an’ ‘ocked our ‘orses,  ‘E cut our sentries up at Suakim,    An’ ‘e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;      You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;      We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed      We’ll come an’ ‘ave a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.  We took our chanst among the Khyber ‘ills,    The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,  The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,    An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:  But all we ever got from such as they    Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;  We ‘eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,    But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ‘oller.      Then ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;      Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.      We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ‘ardly fair;      But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.  ‘E ‘asn’t got no papers of ‘is own,    ‘E ‘asn’t got no medals nor rewards,  So we must certify the skill ‘e’s shown    In usin’ of ‘is long two-’anded swords:  When ‘e’s ‘oppin’ in an’ out among the bush    With ‘is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,  An ‘appy day with Fuzzy on the rush    Will last an ‘ealthy Tommy for a year.      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,      If we ‘adn’t lost some messmates we would ‘elp you to deplore;      But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,      For if you ‘ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!  ‘E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,    An’, before we know, ‘e’s ‘ackin’ at our ‘ead;  ‘E’s all ‘ot sand an’ ginger when alive,    An’ ‘e’s generally shammin’ when ‘e’s dead.  ‘E’s a daisy, ‘e’s a ducky, ‘e’s a lamb!    ‘E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,  ‘E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t give a damn    For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;      You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;      An’ ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ‘ayrick ‘ead of ‘air —      You big black boundin’ beggar – for you broke a British square!

SOLDIER, SOLDIER

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  Why don’t you march with my true love?”   “We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”       New love!  True love!      Best go look for a new love,      The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,      An’ you’d best go look for a new love.  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  What did you see o’ my true love?”   “I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”   “I seed ‘im runnin’ by when the shots begun to fly —  But you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  Did aught take ‘arm to my true love?”   “I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white —  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!”   “‘E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ‘is ‘ead,  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  I’ll down an’ die with my true love!”   “The pit we dug’ll ‘ide ‘im an’ the twenty men beside ‘im —  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  Do you bring no sign from my true love?”   “I bring a lock of ‘air that ‘e allus used to wear,  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,  O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!”   “An’ I tell you truth again – when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain  You’d best take me for your true love.”       True love!  New love!      Best take ‘im for a new love,      The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,      An’ you’d best take ‘im for your true love.

SCREW-GUNS

  Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings,             sniffin’ the mornin’ cool,  I walks in my old brown gaiters             along o’ my old brown mule,  With seventy gunners be’ind me,             an’ never a beggar forgets  It’s only the pick of the Army             that handles the dear little pets – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns – the screw-guns they all love you!      So when we call round with a few guns,                o’ course you will know what to do – hoo! hoo!      Jest send in your Chief an’ surrender —                it’s worse if you fights or you runs:      You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,                but you don’t get away from the guns!  They sends us along where the roads are,            but mostly we goes where they ain’t:  We’d climb up the side of a sign-board            an’ trust to the stick o’ the paint:  We’ve chivied the Naga an’ Looshai,            we’ve give the Afreedeeman fits,  For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,            we guns that are built in two bits – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns…  If a man doesn’t work, why, we drills ‘im            an’ teaches ‘im ‘ow to behave;  If a beggar can’t march, why, we kills ‘im            an’ rattles ‘im into ‘is grave.  You’ve got to stand up to our business            an’ spring without snatchin’ or fuss.  D’you say that you sweat with the field-guns?            By God, you must lather with us – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns…  The eagles is screamin’ around us,            the river’s a-moanin’ below,  We’re clear o’ the pine an’ the oak-scrub,            we’re out on the rocks an’ the snow,  An’ the wind is as thin as a whip-lash            what carries away to the plains  The rattle an’ stamp o’ the lead-mules —            the jinglety-jink o’ the chains – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns…  There’s a wheel on the Horns o’ the Mornin’,            an’ a wheel on the edge o’ the Pit,  An’ a drop into nothin’ beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit:  With the sweat runnin’ out o’ your shirt-sleeves,            an’ the sun off the snow in your face,  An’ ‘arf o’ the men on the drag-ropes            to hold the old gun in ‘er place – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns…  Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings,             sniffin’ the mornin’ cool,  I climbs in my old brown gaiters             along o’ my old brown mule.  The monkey can say what our road was —             the wild-goat ‘e knows where we passed.  Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin’s!             Out drag-ropes!  With shrapnel!  Hold fast – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!      For you all love the screw-guns – the screw-guns they all love  you!      So when we take tea with a few guns,                o’ course you will know what to do – hoo! hoo!      Jest send in your Chief an’ surrender —                it’s worse if you fights or you runs:      You may hide in the caves, they’ll be only your graves,                but you can’t get away from the guns!

GUNGA DIN

  You may talk o’ gin and beer  When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,  An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;  But when it comes to slaughter  You will do your work on water,  An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.  Now in Injia’s sunny clime,  Where I used to spend my time  A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,  Of all them blackfaced crew  The finest man I knew  Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.        He was “Din! Din! Din!    You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!        Hi! slippy hitherao!        Water, get it!  Panee lao!1    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”  The uniform ‘e wore  Was nothin’ much before,  An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,  For a piece o’ twisty rag  An’ a goatskin water-bag  Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.  When the sweatin’ troop-train lay  In a sidin’ through the day,  Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,  We shouted “Harry By!” 2  Till our throats were bricky-dry,  Then we wopped ‘im ‘cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.        It was “Din! Din! Din!    You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?        You put some juldee 3 in it        Or I’ll marrow 4 you this minute    If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”  ‘E would dot an’ carry one  Till the longest day was done;  An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.  If we charged or broke or cut,  You could bet your bloomin’ nut,  ‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.  With ‘is mussick 5 on ‘is back,  ‘E would skip with our attack,  An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,  An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide  ‘E was white, clear white, inside  When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!        It was “Din! Din! Din!”     With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.        When the cartridges ran out,        You could hear the front-files shout,    “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”  I shan’t forgit the night  When I dropped be’ind the fight  With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.  I was chokin’ mad with thirst,  An’ the man that spied me first  Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.  ‘E lifted up my ‘ead,  An’ he plugged me where I bled,  An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:  It was crawlin’ and it stunk,  But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,  I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.        It was “Din! Din! Din!    ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;        ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,        An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:    For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”  ‘E carried me away  To where a dooli lay,  An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.  ‘E put me safe inside,  An’ just before ‘e died,  “I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.  So I’ll meet ‘im later on  At the place where ‘e is gone —  Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;  ‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals  Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,  An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!        Yes, Din! Din! Din!    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!        Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,        By the livin’ Gawd that made you,    You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!  1 Bring water swiftly.  2 Mr Atkins’ equivalent for “O Brother.”  3 Hit you.  4 Be quick.  5 Water skin.

OONTS

(Northern India Transport Train)  Wot makes the soldier’s ‘eart to @penk, wot makes ‘im to perspire?  It isn’t standin’ up to charge nor lyin’ down to fire;  But it’s everlastin’ waitin’ on a everlastin’ road  For the commissariat camel an’ ‘is commissariat load.      O the oont, 1 O the oont, O the commissariat oont!       With ‘is silly neck a-bobbin’ like a basket full o’ snakes;      We packs ‘im like an idol, an’ you ought to ‘ear ‘im grunt,       An’ when we gets ‘im loaded up ‘is blessed girth-rope breaks.  Wot makes the rear-guard swear so ‘ard when night is drorin’ in,  An’ every native follower is shiverin’ for ‘is skin?  It ain’t the chanst o’ being rushed by Paythans from the ‘ills,  It’s the commissariat camel puttin’ on ‘is bloomin’ frills!      O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!       A-trippin’ over tent-ropes when we’ve got the night alarm!      We socks ‘im with a stretcher-pole an’ ‘eads ‘im off in front,       An’ when we’ve saved ‘is bloomin’ life ‘e chaws our bloomin’ arm.  The ‘orse ‘e knows above a bit, the bullock’s but a fool,  The elephant’s a gentleman, the battery-mule’s a mule;  But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an’ done,  ‘E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan-child in one.      O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!       The lumpy-’umpy ‘ummin’-bird a-singin’ where ‘e lies,      ‘E’s blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,       An’ when we get him up again – the beggar goes an’ dies!  ‘E’ll gall an’ chafe an’ lame an’ fight – ‘e smells most awful vile;  ‘E’ll lose ‘isself for ever if you let ‘im stray a mile;  ‘E’s game to graze the ‘ole day long an’ ‘owl the ‘ole night through,  An’ when ‘e comes to greasy ground ‘e splits ‘isself in two.      O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin’, droppin’ oont!       When ‘is long legs give from under an’ ‘is meltin’ eye is dim,      The tribes is up be’ind us, and the tribes is out in front —       It ain’t no jam for Tommy, but it’s kites an’ crows for ‘im.  So when the cruel march is done, an’ when the roads is blind,  An’ when we sees the camp in front an’ ‘ears the shots be’ind,  Ho! then we strips ‘is saddle off, and all ‘is woes is past:  ‘E thinks on us that used ‘im so, and gets revenge at last.      O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin’, bloatin’ oont!       The late lamented camel in the water-cut ‘e lies;      We keeps a mile be’ind ‘im an’ we keeps a mile in front,       But ‘e gets into the drinkin’-casks, and then o’ course we dies.  1Camel – oo is pronounced like u in “bull,” but by Mr. Atkins to rhyme with “front.”