Ah there, Piet! whose time 'as come to die, 'Is carcase past rebellion, but 'is eyes inquirin' why. Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o' rank complete, I've known a lot o' fellers go a dam' sight worse than Piet. An' when there wasn't aught to do I've fought with 'im the 'ole day through Long afternoons o' lyin' still, An' 'earin' as you lay The bullets swish from 'ill to 'ill Like scythes among the 'ay. Ah there, Piet!-be'ind 'is stony kop, With 'is Boer bread an' biltong, an' 'is flask of awful Dop; 'Is Mauser for amusement an' 'is pony for retreat, I've known a lot o' fellers shoot a dam' sight worse than Piet. He's shoved 'is rifle 'neath my nose An' borrowed all my Sunday clo'es An' sent me 'ome in pink; An' I 'ave crept (Lord, 'ow I've crept!) On 'ands an' knees I've gone, And spoored and floored and caught and kept PIET Ah there, Piet!-you've sold me many a pup, When week on week alternate it was you an' me "'ands up!' But though I never made you walk man-naked in the 'eat, I've known a lot of fellows stalk a dam' sight worse than Piet. From Plewman's to Marabastad, Me an' my trusty friend 'ave 'ad, I ain't more proud of 'avin' won, Ah there, Piet!-picked up be'ind the drive! The wonder wasn't 'ow 'e fought, but 'ow 'e kep' alive, With nothin' in 'is belly, on 'is back, or to 'is feetI've known a lot o' men behave a dam' sight worse than Piet. No more I'll 'ear 'is rifle crack For countin' what 'e eats an' draws, 'E's gettin' 'alf the Earth, because Ah there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough, Your gratis tents an' cattle, an' your most ungrateful frow. You've made the British taxpayer rebuild your country-seat I've known some pet battalions charge a dam' sight less than Piet. T 'WILFUL-MISSING' HERE is a world outside the one you know, As we can testify, for we are there. You may 'ave read a bullet laid us low, They can't be certain-faces alter so ain't it odd?-the one we best can spare. We might 'ave seen our chance to cut the showName, number, record, an' begin elsewhereLeavin' some not too late-lamented foe One funeral-private-British-for 'is share. We may 'ave took it yonder in the Low Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go, We might 'ave been your lovers long ago, Marry again, and we will not say no, Nor come to bastardise the kids you bear; Wait on in 'ope-you've all your life below Before you'll ever 'ear us on the stair. There is no need to give our reasons, though But other people might not judge 'em so, And now it doesn't matter what they were. What man can size or weigh another's woe? There are some things too bitter 'ard to bear. Suffice it we 'ave finished-Domino! As we can testify, for we are there, In the side-world where 'wilful-missings' go. |