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WAR ARMY DOCTOR NICHOLSON'S NEK MY PAL, THE BOER SONG OF THE FIRST TRAIN THROUGH THE NAVAL BRIGADE THE ARMOURED TRAIN MAKE YOUR OWN ARRANGEMENTS GINGER JAMES 'HER MAJESTY HAS BEEN PLEASED--' ARTHUR LEGACIES T. A. IN LOVE TOMMY ADVISES THE NUMBER ONE BRITANNIA TO HER FIRST-BORN TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE THE MISSION THAT FAILED THE PRAYER CEASE FIRE TOMMY'S AUTOGRAPH AT THE BRINK! THE KING OF OOJEE-MOOJEE THE SONG OF THE TOWN BY SIMON'S BAY THE SQUIRE THE SEA-NATION NATURE FAILS THE COLONEL'S GARDEN THE PEOPLE TO CECIL JOHN RHODES, JULY 18, 1899 WHEN LONDON CALLS! CAIROWARDS ODE TO THE OPENING OF THE SOUTH AFRICAN EXHIBITION, 1898

Army Doctor! Army Doctor! 'Ere's some 'cruities for inspection,-- Some in rags, an' some in cuffs. Some in shirts, an' some without 'em, Wot a blessed strange collection! Served before? You needn't doubt 'em, Bloomin' muffs!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor! Gold an' velvet! 'broidered lacin's, 'Oldin' 'igh your bloomin' 'ead! 'Seen you peel that coat so winnin', 'Seen you stain them pretty facin's, 'Seen your 'ighly glossy linen, Splattered red!

And perhaps it is good That we change our mood, And perchance it is well to blame, And to seek elsewhere, For some men to bear, The weight of our foolish shame. But the fight hard fought, Must it go for nought Because of its hapless turn? Must we then withhold, For the life hard sold, The Honour it died to earn?

When hot and tired, With the last round fired, And never a ray of hope-- What then the shame? They were just the same Who charged Talana's slope! You may give and take, As the shrapnels rake, When your batt'ry has replied; But you cannot live When there's too much give, From the guns on the open side.

Good men are they, Who gain the day,-- And victory is sweet,-- And just as brave Who do not rave At every small defeat. For the fight hard fought Must not go for nought, Because of its hapless turn; Nor we withhold, For the life hard sold, The Honour it died to earn.

'My pal, the Boer! You're a prisoner of war' ; 'You can't escape me, can yer? In the name of Rule Britannia, I commandeer your 'orse an' Mauser rifle!'

My pal, the Boer, Ain't used to proper war, But tho' 'e scorns the flag an' does the grandy, The 'igh an' mighty scorner, When we get 'im in a corner, 'E FINDS A FLAG OF TRUCE IS MIGHTY 'ANDY!

Line Clear to Witteputs! I wind around the guarded hill, And thunder o'er the lean long bridge that spans the sombre stream; No uptorn rail to devastate, no culvert gap to fill, And where the outpost feared to ride, I gather up my steam.

Line Clear to Belmont: and I feel the ballast shaking down: My flanges bite the new-laid rail and prove the new-thrust pin. On either side the purple ridge, the veldt land sickly brown, The 'distant off' says 'Welcome,' and the 'Home' says 'Come ye in.'

Line Clear to Graspan: so I run adown the gentle grade, Nor notice in my joyful haste the kopje stubble grown, And wildly bouldered foot to crest where fell a half brigade, What time the bristling mountain-side with segment shell was sown.

Line Clear: I face the grim gaunt range that stretches east and west : I skirt the ridge that hid the guns, and gleefully I breast The easy rise that brings in view the long-beleaguered town.

When you're pickin' your men for a fight, When choosin' the corps that'll serve, It's only quite proper an' right To fix upon muscle an' nerve, An' so, to your heavy Dragoons-- Your Granny-dear Guards an' their band-- To your Sappers with bridgin' pontoons, You can buckle the Lower Deck Hand!

His march is a go-as-you-please; He most keeps step with hisself! For his boots ain't conducive to ease, Bein' mostly kept packed on a shelf! Tho' he isn't so span or so spic-- Tho' his marchin' ain't what you'd call grand-- He gets to the front just as quick Does the elegant Lower Deck Hand!

You may swear by the jolly marines, 'Per marey, per tarey' they fight-- Not speakin' for them in their 'teens-- I don't mind admittin' your right. But all that the Joey has got, As I'd have all the world understand, He's learnt--well, he's learnt quite a lot From his tooter--the Lower Deck Hand!

He doesn't shape well at Reviews, I've known him to spit in the ranks; But we've never been asked to excuse A fault, when he's guarding the flanks. An' when there's a break in the square Or a place where the Line cannot stand, I'll tell you the chap to put there-- 'Jack Mullow'--the Lower Deck Hand.

There's risk on the ballasted roadway, There's death on the girdered bridge, Red ruin from sleeper to sleeper, And wreck on the bouldered ridge. No signal to herald my coming, No whistle to waken the plain; Stand clear--I am out for patrolling! Make way for the Armoured Train!

I run not to time, nor to table, I'm neither an 'Up' nor a 'Down,' But 'Full speed ahead' is my order, When skirting the enemy's town. My mails have a backing of cordite, My luggage is powder and shell, With smoke-stack a-blazing I thunder, A traveller's sample of Hell!

They have laid me a mine by a culvert, They have loosened a bolt by a curve, But thrice-tested steel is my muscle, And thrice-tested brass is my nerve. A curse for their bungling folly, A laugh for the death-trap that fails, A hang for the enemy's miner, So long as I keep to the rails.

A cheer--and I pull from the township To spy out the enemy's line; A plunge--and I rush into darkness As reckless of wreckage as mine. And what if a rail has been lifted? And what if a river's unspanned? I fail, but I know in the failing I strove at the Empire's command.

They were men who at Badajos conquered, They were men who for Wellington struck, And a Man is the Man at the Throttle, And a Man is the Man on the Truck. Undismayed I may go to destruction. For I know at the end I may feel I die with the men on the footplate, I pass with my brothers in steel.

When the dep?t soldier's on parade 'e sparkles an' 'e shines. When the dep?t soldier's drillin' 'e must make each motion 'tell.' When the dep?t soldier's marchin' 'e must march on drill-book lines. 'E 'as got a drill-instructor, an' 'e does it very well. But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When the camp is rushed at midnight, an' you're fallin' in--to die! O there ain't no drill-rules set there, But it's take your gun--an' get there! When you make your own arrangements, you must grab your belt an' fly.

The dep?t soldier's grounded in a systematic drill; 'E also knows wot's 'rendezvous' an' what is 'bivouac.' 'E knows the use of rifle-pits, the proper way to kill-- 'E understands the principles an' the'ries of attack. But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When you're dodgin' tons of boulder, climbin' mount'ins under fire, An' the drill-book won't assist you Till the fallin' rocks 'ave missed you! So you make your own arrangements--an' you climb a little 'igher!

When the dep?t soldier's wantin' with 'is orficer to speak, 'E must 'alt two paces from 'im, an' salute before the start. An' 'e mustn't try to argue, an' 'e mustn't give no cheek; An' if 'is Captain slangs 'im--'e must take it in good part. But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When you see 'im lying wounded, all the circumstances change. An' you don't 'eed no instructions; An' you don't need introductions; But you make your own arrangements--an' you get 'im out of range.

When the dep?t soldier sickens, when the dep?t soldier dies, 'E is buried by 'is comrades in the regulation style. 'E is covered by an ensign of the regulation size, An' 'e gets a firin' party made of thirteen rank an' file. But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements! When the Colonel reads the service by a guard-room lantern light. When in silent rows you've laid 'em In a trench your bay'nets made 'em, O, it's make your own arrangements when you bury in the night!

A spell I 'ad to wait Outside the barrick gate, For Ginger James was passin' out as I was passin' in; 'E was only a recruit, But I give 'im the salute, For I'll never git another chance of givin' it agin!

'E'd little brains, I'll swear, Beneath 'is ginger 'air, 'Is personal attractions, well, they wasn't very large; 'E was fust in ev'ry mill, An' a foul-mouthed brute, but still We'll forgive 'im all 'is drawbacks--'e 'as taken 'is discharge.

'E once got fourteen days, For drunken, idle ways, An' the Colonel said the nasty things that colonels sometimes say; 'E called him to 'is face The regiment's disgrace-- But the Colonel took 'is 'at off when 'e passed 'im by to-day.

For days 'e used to dwell Inside a guard-room cell, Where they put the darbies on 'im for a 'owlin' savage brute; But as by the guard 'e went They gave 'im the present, The little bugler sounded off the 'General Salute.'

The band turned out to play Poor Ginger James away; 'Is Captain an' 'is Company came down to see 'im off; An' thirteen file an' rank, With three rounds each of blank; An' 'e rode down on a carriage, like a bloomin' city toff!

'E doesn't want no pass, 'E's journeying first-class; 'Is trav'lling rug's a Union Jack, which isn't bad at all; The tune the drummers play It ain't so very gay, But a rather slow selection, from a piece that's known as 'Saul.'

Wot a crowd of people! Wot a sea of faces! 'Ow the ladies' parasols are glist'nin' in the sun! Troops in 'open order,' Captains in their places. Wish the day was over, and I wish the job was done!

Wot a lot of civvies! Mus' be 'arf the city! Like a mob on Boxing-night outside Drury Lane! Ain't it perfect weather? More's the blessed pity! Wish instead of sunshine it was pourin' 'ard o' rain!

Comes of bein' famous-- Mentioned in despatches! Comes of me a-carrying the Major to the rear! Empty stomach fighting-- Getting sleep by snatches!-- 'Ow the troops must cuss me for a-keeping them out 'ere!

'Ow the people eye me, Like a choice chrysanth'um! 'Ow this collar's chokin' me!--Lord! I'm feelin' sick! Troops are at the 'shoulder'-- 'Pre-sent'--there's the anthem! 'Ow I 'ope 'er Majesty will get it over quick!

Face the lan-dow panels, Dumbly; likewise blindly, Seein' in a sorter mist a lady dressed in black: 'Ear 'er sof'ly talkin'. Thanks, mum, thank you kindly! Saw the Major fallin', and I 'ad to take 'im back!

Thank you, mum--your 'Ighness-- Majesty, I mean, mum! 'M sure I'm much obliged to you for this 'ere pretty Cross! Bless you, you're a lady! Mean you are the Queen, mum! On'y picked the Major up an' shoved 'im on an 'orse!

'Saw our Sub go under, 'Alf 'is men around 'im Cut to bits--an' 'im so young,--yes mum, very sad. Yes mum, 'e was buried In the place we found 'im. Thank you, mum,--your Majesty

'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I; 'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? 'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't got nothin' to fear.' But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there, To burn blank cartridges everywhere; An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear-- Did Arthur!

Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I? Wot 'as the Gen'ral done? 'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'is rank for fun!' But that was a lie, for I found out since 'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince! 'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince! Not Arthur!

Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I; Wot does the Gen'ral know? 'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'y got up for show!' But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.'; But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt! An', insult to injury--checked me for dirt! Did Arthur!

'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I; 'Ow is 'e liked by you? 'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckon some'ow 'e'll do!'

I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before, A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war, Or front rank man in an Army Corps, With Arthur!

Wot is 'e, after all? sez I; Wot is 'e, after all? 'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the "orficers' call"!' 'E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done! 'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none, An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son-- That's Arthur!

The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames, Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box. The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games, The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks, An' all, except the letters and the ring-- You'll find them all together tied with string.

The pain ain't near so bad as wot it were The day they dragged me from the limber wheels; Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er; Say it was fever--peaceful--in the 'ills; An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band, An'--send a bit of hair: you understand?

Firin' at the rifle range I be. I've missed a fust-class targit--an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind! I nearly shot a marker once! ; The orficer 'e swears at me--but re'ly, I don't mind! I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee! Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'! My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust; An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust; They've tried to find the reason--but I've seen 'em furder fust! An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee! They can't make out wot's comin' over me. The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink, The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink! The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think, An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!

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