FORD O' KABUL RIVER CABUL town's by Kabul river Blow the bugle, draw the sword There I lef' my mate for ever, Wet an' drippin' by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin' 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin', 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Kabul town was ours to take Blow the bugle, draw the sword I'd ha' left it for 'is sake 'Im that left me by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there, 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark? 'Im the best beside the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots 'll pull 'em under, By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Turn your 'orse from Kabul town Blow the bugle, draw the sword 'Im an' 'arf my troop is down, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin' 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. GENTLEMEN-RANKERS To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, To my brethren in their sorrow overseas, Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed, And a trooper of the Empress, if you please. Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses, And faith he went the pace and went it blind, And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin, But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind. We're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, Baa! Baa! Baa! We're little black sheep who 've gone astray, Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, Damned from here to Eternity, God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah! Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops, And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell, To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop, When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir." If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, And all we know most distant and most dear, Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep, Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer? When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guardlantern gutters And the horror of our fall is written plain, Every secret, self-revealing on the aching whitewashed ceiling, Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain? We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth, We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung, And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth. God help us, for we knew the worst too young! Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence, Our pride it is to know no spur of pride, And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us And we die, and none can tell Them where we died. We're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, Baa! Baa! Baa! We're little black sheep who 've gone astray, Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, ROUTE MARCHIN' WE'RE marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains, A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains; Ho! get away you bullock-man, you 've 'eard the bugle blowed, There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' every blooming campin'-ground exactly like the last; While the Big Drum says, With 'is" rowdy-dowdy-dow!" — "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow? "1 Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see, tree, An' there's that rummy silver-grass a-wavin' in the wind, An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind. While it's best foot first, . . 1 Why don't you get on? the At half-past five 's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come, Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome. But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts, An' it's best foot first, .. Oh, then it 's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings, An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.1 It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease, To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees, For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick yards, So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards. Till it's best foot first, So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore, There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawn pore; An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell, You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well. We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand, Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band; 1Language. Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language. |