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We've got the cholerer in camp—it's worse than

forty fights; We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isru

lites! It's before us, an' be'ind us, an’ we cannot get

away, An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more


Oh, strike your camp an' go, the bugle's callin',

The Rains are fallin'
The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe

below; The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us; The chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to

'ear us

To 'ear us-
O Lord, for it's a-killing of us so !

Since August, when it started, it's been sticking to

our tail, Tho' they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've

'ad us back by rail; But it runs as fast as troop-trains, an' we can not

get away; An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more


There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite

to drink; It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march

and think; An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear

the jackals say, “Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more


'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way

o' doin' thingsLieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin'

wings, An' Lances actin' Sergeants-eight file to obey— For we've lot's o'quick promotion on ten

deaths a day!

Our Colonel's white an' twitterly-'e gets no sleep

nor food, But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does

no good. 'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is

payBut there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths

a day.

Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e

rides, An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes

us split our sides! With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra

Boom-der-ay ! 'E's the proper kind o padre for ten deaths a



An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catho

licksHe knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy con

jurin' tricks; An' the two they works together when it comes

to play or pray; So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a


We've got the cholerer in camp—we've got it 'ot

an' sweet; It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we

must eat. We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found

it doesn't pay, An' we're rockin'round the Districk on ten deaths

a day!

Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are


The bugle's callin'!
The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe

below !
An' them that do not like it they can lump it,
An' them that can not stand it they can jump it;
We've got to die somewheresome way-some-

'owWe might as well begin to do it now ! Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole

Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners-50 !
Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow !
Oh, strike-oh, strike your camp an' go !

(Gawd 'elp us !)


I've taken my fun where I've found it;

I've rogued an’ I've ranged in my time; I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts,

An' four o' the lot was prime.
One was an 'arf-caste widow,

One was a woman at Prome,
One was the wife of a jemadar-sais,*

An' one is a girl at 'ome.

Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies,

For, takin' 'em all along,
You never can say till you've tried 'em,

An' then you are like to be wrong.
There's times when you'll think that you mightn't,

There's times when you'll know that you might; But the things you will learn from the Yellow an'

They'll 'elp you an 'eap with the White !

* Head-groom.

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