There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

  When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound,
   Without a care or trouble on your mind,
  And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round,
   And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind;
  In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise,
   And a clatter on the deck above your crown,
  And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out,
   'There's another blessed horse fell down.'

  You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall,
   A-leaning on the railings nearly dead,
  And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall,
   And you curse them as you tumble into bed.
  Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon,
   There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown;
  And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack,
   There's another blessed horse fell down.'

  And when the war is over and the fighting all is done,
   And you're all at home with medals on your chest,
  And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun
   At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest;
  As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep,
   And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown,
  Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new,
   It's another blessed horse fell down.'

On the Trek

  Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
   With sun above and silent veldt below;
  And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,
   And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.
  Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain?
   Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough?
  Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again,
   For we're going on a long job now.

  In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep,
   With the endless line of waggons stretching back,
  While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep,
   Plodding silent on the never-ending track,
  While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see
   Makes you wonder will your turn come — when and how?
  As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee —
   Oh! we're going on a long job now.

  When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead,
   And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice,
  Or you've watched your old mate dying — with the vultures overhead,
   Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.
  And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear,
   I can picture the excitement and the row;
  But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year,
   For we're going on a long job now.

The Last Parade

  With never a sound of trumpet,
   With never a flag displayed,
  The last of the old campaigners
   Lined up for the last parade.

  Weary they were and battered,
   Shoeless, and knocked about;
  From under their ragged forelocks
   Their hungry eyes looked out.

  And they watched as the old commander
   Read out, to the cheering men,
  The Nation's thanks and the orders
   To carry them home again.

  And the last of the old campaigners,
   Sinewy, lean, and spare —
  He spoke for his hungry comrades:
   'Have we not done our share?

  'Starving and tired and thirsty
   We limped on the blazing plain;
  And after a long night's picket
   You saddled us up again.

  'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes
   When the frost lay snowy-white.
  Never a halt in the daytime,
   Never a rest at night!

  'We knew when the rifles rattled
   From the hillside bare and brown,
  And over our weary shoulders
   We felt warm blood run down,

  'As we turned for the stretching gallop,
   Crushed to the earth with weight;
  But we carried our riders through it —
   Carried them p'raps too late.

  'Steel!  We were steel to stand it —
   We that have lasted through,
  We that are old campaigners
   Pitiful, poor, and few.

  'Over the sea you brought us,
   Over the leagues of foam:
  Now we have served you fairly
   Will you not take us home?

  'Home to the Hunter River,
   To the flats where the lucerne grows;
  Home where the Murrumbidgee
   Runs white with the melted snows.

  'This is a small thing surely!
   Will not you give command
  That the last of the old campaigners
   Go back to their native land?'

       .    .    .    .    .

  They looked at the grim commander,
   But never a sign he made.
  'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners
   Moved off from their last parade.

With French to Kimberley

  The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;
  The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!
  Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,
  Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.
  They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall,
  They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!'
  And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day,
  For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

  He made no march along the line; he made no front attack
  Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back;
  But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley,
  Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.
  The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs,
  Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.
  The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall
  Rode back in haste:  'He marches east!  He threatens Jacobsdal!'
  Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay,
  That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

  His column was five thousand strong — all mounted men — and guns:
  There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons;
  They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space,
  And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!
  From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows,
  From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows;
  And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent:
  With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.
  Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew
  Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo.
  From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array,
  To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

  He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.
  The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.
  The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs;
  He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns!
  Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died;
  We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride.
  Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day
  Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

  We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford.
  Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared.
  A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side;
  The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried,
  For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone:
  But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!'
  The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew;
  With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw;
  And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray,
  And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

  Ay, French was through to Kimberley!  And ere the day was done
  We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun:
  Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame:
  Around the town the foemen camped — they knew not that we came;
  But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread;
  In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled;
  And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain,
  The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein,
  The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer,
  The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!'
  Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say
  We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

Johnny Boer

  Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run,
  And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun.
  At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about
  They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out.
  But Fuzzy gives himself away — his style is out of date,
  He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate;
  You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead:
  But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head;
  He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run,
  He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun.

  For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear,
  He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer,
  Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own —
  Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone.
  The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand
  He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land;
  And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about,
  And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out.
  It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun
  Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun.

  On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy,
  He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy;
  With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks
  And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox.
  At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear,
  Next day at dawn — 'What, ho! she bumps' — from somewhere in the rear.
  Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass —
  He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass;
  But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun,
  There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun.

  But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow,
  We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go.
  With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late,
  We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State;
  And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run,
  And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun.

What Have the Cavalry Done

  What have the cavalry done?
  Cantered and trotted about,
  Routin' the enemy out,
  Causin' the beggars to run!
  And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,
  Over the veldt on our weary feet.
  Tramp, tramp, tramp
  Under the blazin' sun,
  With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,
  'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before —
  That's what the cavalry done!

  What have the gunners done
  Battlin' every day,
  Battlin' any way.
  Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?
  'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.!
  See! when the fight grows hot,
  Under the rifles or not,
  Always the order runs,
  'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!'

  And you'd see them great gun-horses spring
  To the 'action front' — and around they'd swing.
  Find the range with some queer machine
  'At four thousand with fuse fourteen.
  Ready!  Fire number one!'
  Handled the battery neat and quick!
  Stick to it, too!  How DID they stick!
  Never a gunner was seen to run!
  Never a gunner would leave his gun!
  Not though his mates dropped all around!
  Always a gunner would stand his ground.
  Take the army — the infantry,
  Mounted rifles, and cavalry,
  Twice the numbers I'd give away,
  And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,
  For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run,
  That's what the gunners done!

Right in the Front of the Army

  'Where 'ave you been this week or more,
  'Aven't seen you about the war?
  Thought perhaps you was at the rear
  Guarding the waggons.'  'What, us?  No fear!
  Where have we been?  Why, bless my heart,
  Where have we been since the bloomin' start?
      Right in the front of the army,
       Battling day and night!
      Right in the front of the army,
       Teaching 'em how to fight!'
      Every separate man you see,
      Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V.,
      Every one of 'em seems to be
       Right in the front of the army!

  Most of the troops to the camp had gone,
  When we met with a cow-gun toiling on;
  And we said to the boys, as they walked her past,
  'Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!'
  'Here at last!  Why, what d'yer mean?
  Ain't we just where we've always been?
      Right in the front of the army,
       Battling day and night!
      Right in the front of the army,
       Teaching 'em how to fight!'
      Correspondents and vets. in force,
      Mounted foot and dismounted horse,
      All of them were, as a matter of course,
       Right in the front of the army.

  Old Lord Roberts will have to mind
  If ever the enemy get behind;
  For they'll smash him up with a rear attack,
  Because his army has got no back!
  Think of the horrors that might befall
  An army without any rear at all!
      Right in the front of the army,
       Battling day and night!
      Right in the front of the army,
       Teaching 'em how to fight!
      Swede attaches and German counts,
      Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts),
      All of them were by their own accounts
       Right in the front of the army!

That V.C.

  'Twas in the days of front attack,
   This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it —
  That every 'front' had got a back,
   And French was just the man to turn it.

  A wounded soldier on the ground
   Was lying hid behind a hummock;
  He proved the good old proverb sound —
   An army travels on its stomach.

  He lay as flat as any fish,
   His nose had worn a little furrow;
  He only had one frantic wish,
   That like an antbear he could burrow.

  The bullets whistled into space,
   The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
  The four-point-seven supplied the bass —
   You'd think the devil's band was playing.

  A valiant comrade crawling near
   Observed his most supine behaviour,
  And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer?
   Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer.

  'You get up on my shoulders, mate,
   And if we live beyond the firing,
  I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,
   Because our blokes is all retiring.

  'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he,
   'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.'
  'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me,
   I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.

  'I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
   I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;
  But if you lift me off the ground,
   It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'

  So back towards the firing line
   Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh!
  Remarking 'What a selfish swine!
   He might have let me be a hero.'

Fed Up

  I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
  I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
  But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,
  A-drawing fire from Koppies — well, I'm fair fed up.

  It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through;
  Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you;
  But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
  From that there blooming pom-pom gun — well, I'm fed up.

  We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,
  I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
  But after all — What's Mounted Fut?  I saw them t'other day,
  They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away.
  The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,
  But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights —
  Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup,
  Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.

  And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks,
  They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.
  They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead,
  And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.
  Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
  But walking forty miles to fight — well, I'm fed up!

  So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry
  I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;
  They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,
  But Bully Beef and Biscuits — well! I'm fair fed up!

Jock!

  There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
  In the fighting up and down and round about.
  He's continually marching here and there
  And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.

  The Boer, you see, he generally runs;
  But sometimes when he hides behind a rock,
  And we can't make no impression with the guns,
  Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!'

  Yes, it's Jock — Scotch Jock.
  He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
  For he's hairy and he's hard,
  And his feet are by the yard,
  And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
  But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry —
  'Send for Jock!'

  The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance,
  Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
  The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance
  By holding of their helmets on their head.

  And when the Boer has dug himself a trench
  And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,
  These mounted heroes — pets of Johnny French —
  They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!

  Yes, the Jocks — Scotch Jocks,
  With their music that'd terrify an ox!
  When the bullets kick the sand
  You can hear the sharp command —
  'Forty-Second!  At the double!  Charge the rocks!'
  And the charge is like a flood
  When they've warmed the Highland blood
  Of the Jocks!