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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'
below; The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us; The chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to
To 'ear us-
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
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
Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are
The bugle's callin'!
'owWe might as well begin to do it now ! Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole
(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 a woman at Prome,
An' one is a girl at 'ome.
Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies,
For, takin' 'em all along,
An' then you are like to be wrong.
There's times when you'll know that you might; But the things you will learn from the Yellow an'