THE POINT OF VIEW.
(As Private Tommy Atkins puts it to his Comrade Bill.)
[In the Report of Lord WANTAGE's Committee, it appears that our Home Army costs seventeen and a-half millions per annum. The Duke of CAMBRIDGE doubts if we could rapidly mobilise one Army Corps. Sir EVELYN WOOD holds half the men under him at Aldershot are not equal to doing a day's service, even in England. The Duke of CONNAUGHT says half the battalions under his command are no good for service, cannot even carry their kits, and are not fit to march. Lord WOLSELEY, it is stated, compares the British Army to a "squeezed lemon.">[
"Squeezed lemon!" That's encouraging!
Wish Wolseley knew 'ow much it's pleased us.
I'd like to arsk one little thing:
I wonder who it is who's squeezed us?
The whole Report's a thing to cheer;
Makes us feel proud and pleased, oh! very!
And won't the bloomin' furrineer
Over our horacles make merry?
Costs seventeen millions and a arf,
And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink!
That tots it up! They wouldn't charf,
Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do you think?
Therefore, we're just a useless lot.
After pipe-claying and stiff-starching,
We might be good for stopping shot,
Only that we're not fit for marching!
We cannot carry our own kits!
I say, Bill, ain't we awful duffers?
Not furrin foes, or Frenchy wits,
Could more completely give us snuffers.
CAMBRIDGE, CONNAUGHT, Sir EVELYN WOOD,
All of a mind, for once, about us!
What wonder Bungs dub us no good,
And lackeys, snobs, and street-boys flout us?
I see myself as others see;
A weedy, narrer-chested stripling,
Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
Wot can't go out without our nurses,
But ups and pats us on the back
In very pooty potry-verses.[1]
We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
(Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.
So Tommy's best respects to 'im,
At Aldershot we'd like to treat 'im.
Though if he bobs in Evelyn's swim,
He might not know us when we meet 'im!
But, Bill, if all this barney's true
Consarnin' "Our Poor Little Army,"
It must be nuts to Pollyvoo!
He needn't feel a mite alarmy.
Whose fault is it we cost a lot,
And, if war comes, must fail, or fly it?
Well facts is facts, and bounce is rot;
But, blarm it, BILL,—I'd like to try it!
Footnote 1: [(return)]
Mr. Kipling dedicates his "Barrack-Room Ballads" to "TOMMY ATKINS" in these lines:—
I have made for you a song,
An' it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it's true;
I've tried for to explain.
Both your pleasure and your pain,
And, THOMAS, here's my best respects to you!
Oh, there'll surely come a day
When they'll grant you all your pay
And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound,
And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!
