Kitabı oku: «Writ in Barracks», sayfa 2

THE NAVAL BRIGADE

 
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!
 
 
(The Lower Deck Hand
Doesn't want any band;
He's grit, an he's sand
Is 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!
 
 
(The Lower Deck Hand
Wasn't reared in the Strand;
But he's good to command,
Is the 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!
 
 
(The Lower Deck Hand
Is a mine that's unpanned;
An' he's yours to command,
Is 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.
 
 
(The Lower Deck Hand
Will die as he 'll stand;
He's tempered an land,
Is the Lower Deck Hand.)
 
 
When you're hemmed in a tight little hole,
By a greatly outnumbering foe,
It's a matter of stokin' an' coal
How far we're away from the foe.
When the Infantry's needin' some aid,
When the 'tillery gets under-man'd, —
Make way for the Naval Brigade! —
His Highness the Lower Deck Hand!
 
 
(The Lower Deck Hand
With his guns he can land,
An he'll kick up some sand,
Will the Lower Deck Hand.)
 

THE ARMOURED TRAIN

 
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.
 

MAKE YOUR OWN ARRANGEMENTS

 
When the depôt soldier's dinin' on three-quarters of a pound,
If there's too much bone to please 'im, or the meat is extry tough,
'E 'as got a chance of grousin' when 'is orficer goes round,
'E can draw upon the mess-book, if 's rations ain't enough.
But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!
When you're cut orf from the column, an' supplies are runnin' low,
It ain't no 'too much fat, sir!'
But it's bread – an' glad of that, sir!
O it's bake your own arrangements – out of flour – as you go!
 
 
When the depôt soldier's on parade 'e sparkles an' 'e shines.
When the depôt soldier's drillin' 'e must make each motion 'tell.'
When the depôt 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 depôt 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 depôt 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 depôt soldier sickens, when the depôt 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!
 

GINGER JAMES

 
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.'
 

'HER MAJESTY HAS BEEN PLEASED – '

 
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!
 
 
Wonder if I'm dusty?
'Elmet feels lopsided!
Chuck a chest for 'Eaven's sake! Lord, I'm feelin' queer!
Twenty times they've brushed me,
Twice 'ave I been tidied,
Yet I'm feelin' mucky still. Private Jawkins? 'ERE!
 
 
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 (God, I'm feelin' bad!)