Sing they who will of the Yeomen Imperial,
Gillies, Scouts, "Tigers," and bold C.I.V.;
Others may hold to more usual material,
Horse, Foot, and Rifles, and Artillerie.
But there's a corps with its name writ in History—
Bold they as lions and steadfast as rocks—
Gaily we'll troll our song,
Slow as we stroll along—
Trickle and roll along—
Driving the Ox!
But when the war-cloud frowns thicker and lowereth,
When the quick-moving battalions are met;
Not where the soft-hissing bullet most showereth,
Not in the forefront our places are set.
Still drive we on, though a day's march in rear we be,
O'er veldt and vlei, with the mud to our hocks—
Still will we push along,
Nor sadly hush our song,
Though we don't rush along,
Driving the Ox!
Fill, then, a cup to the Beeves of Her Majesty,
Long in the rear may their colours be seen!
Heavy their loads, but their hearts light as anything,
Doing strong work for their country and Queen.
What though they jeer who sweep by with the mounted troops?
Treat we as nought all their jibes and their mocks.
Though ne'er a fight we'll see,
Cheerful and bright we'll be,
We're a grand sight to see,
Driving the Ox!
"Old Man."
FABLES FOR THE STAFF.[7]
The Persuasive Pom-pom.
BY RUDYARD KIPLING.
III.
A Field-Artillerist passing a newly-imported Pom-pom overwhelmed it with Contumely, saying, "What has a Gunner to do with an Unqualified Sewing-machine?"
To this the virtuous Mechanism returned no answer, but communicated these Atrocious Sentiments to a fellow Pom-pom in the Opposing Army which, later, catching the Field-battery crossing a Donga, gave it Ten-a-penny for two Minutes to the Confusion of all concerned.
"Alas!" said the Field-artillerist as he watched his Leg disassociate itself from the Remainder of his Anatomy, "Who would have thought that an Implement officially rejected by the War Office and what is more, damned by Myself, could have done so neat a Trick?"