Elephants of the
gun teams
We lent to Alexander the strength of
Hercules,
The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our
knees;
We bowed our necks to service: they ne’er
were loosed again,—
Make way there—way for the ten-foot
teams
Of
the Forty-Pounder train!
Gun bullocks
Those heroes in their harnesses avoid
a cannon-ball,
And what they know of powder upsets them one
and all;
Then we come into action and tug the guns again—
Make way there—way for the twenty
yoke
Of
the Forty-Pounder train!
Cavalry horses
By the brand on my shoulder, the finest
of tunes
Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
And it’s sweeter than “Stables”
or “Water” to me—
The Cavalry Canter of “Bonnie Dundee”!
Then feed us and break us and handle
and groom,
And give us good riders and plenty of room,
And launch us in column of squadron and see
The way of the war-horse to “Bonnie Dundee”!
Screw-gun mules
As me and my companions
were scrambling up a hill,
The path was lost in
rolling stones, but we went forward still;
For we can wriggle and
climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
Oh, it’s our delight
on a mountain height, with a leg or two to
spare!
Good luck to every sergeant,
then, that lets us pick our road;
Bad luck to all the
driver-men that cannot pack a load:
For we can wriggle and
climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
Oh, it’s our delight
on a mountain height, with a leg or two to
spare!
COMMISSARIAT camels
We haven’t a camelty
tune of our own
To help us trollop along,
But every neck is a
hair trombone
(Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a
hair trombone!)
And this our marching-song:
Can’t! Don’t!
Shan’t! Won’t!
Pass it along the line!
Somebody’s pack
has slid from his back,
Wish it were only mine!
Somebody’s load
has tipped off in the road—
Cheer for a halt and
a row!
Urrr! Yarrh!
Grr! Arrh!
Somebody’s catching
it now!
All the beasts together
Children of the Camp
are we,
Serving each in his
degree;
Children of the yoke
and goad,
Pack and harness, pad
and load.
See our line across
the plain,
Like a heel-rope bent
again,
Reaching, writhing,
rolling far,
Sweeping all away to
war!
While the men that walk
beside,
Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
Cannot tell why we or
they
March and suffer day
by day.
Children
of the Camp are we,
Serving
each in his degree;
Children
of the yoke and goad,
Pack
and harness, pad and load!
