That V.C.
'Twas in the days of front attack,
This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it —
That every 'front' had got a back,
And French was just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the ground
Was lying hid behind a hummock;
He proved the good old proverb sound —
An army travels on its stomach.
He lay as flat as any fish,
His nose had worn a little furrow;
He only had one frantic wish,
That like an antbear he could burrow.
The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The four-point-seven supplied the bass —
You'd think the devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling near
Observed his most supine behaviour,
And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer?
Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer.
'You get up on my shoulders, mate,
And if we live beyond the firing,
I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,
Because our blokes is all retiring.
'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he,
'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.'
'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me,
I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.
'I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;
But if you lift me off the ground,
It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'
So back towards the firing line
Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh!
Remarking 'What a selfish swine!
He might have let me be a hero.'
Fed Up
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,
A-drawing fire from Koppies — well, I'm fair fed up.
It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through;
Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you;
But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
From that there blooming pom-pom gun — well, I'm fed up.
We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,
I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
But after all — What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,
They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away.
The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,
But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights —
Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup,
Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.
And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks,
They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.
They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead,
And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.
Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
But walking forty miles to fight — well, I'm fed up!
So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry
I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;
They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,
But Bully Beef and Biscuits — well! I'm fair fed up!
Jock!
There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there
And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs;
But sometimes when he hides behind a rock,
And we can't make no impression with the guns,
Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!'
Yes, it's Jock — Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard,
And his feet are by the yard,
And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry —
'Send for Jock!'
The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance,
Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance
By holding of their helmets on their head.
And when the Boer has dug himself a trench
And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,
These mounted heroes — pets of Johnny French —
They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!
Yes, the Jocks — Scotch Jocks,
With their music that'd terrify an ox!
When the bullets kick the sand
You can hear the sharp command —
'Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!'
And the charge is like a flood
When they've warmed the Highland blood
Of the Jocks!