Me that saw Barberton took
When we dropped through the clouds on their ’ead,
An’ they ’ove the guns over and fled—
Me that was through Di’mond ’Ill,
An’ Pieters an’ Springs an’ Belfast—
From Dundee to Vereeniging all!
Me that stuck out to the last
(An’ five bloomin’ bars on my chest)—
I am doin’ my Sunday-school best,
By the ’elp of the Squire an’ his wife
(Not to mention the ’ousemaid an’ cook),
To come in an’ ’ands up an’ be still,
An’ honestly work for my bread,
My livin’ in that state of life
To which it shall please God to call
Me!
Me that ’ave followed my trade
In the place where the lightnin’s are made,
’Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon;
Me that lay down an’ got up
Three years an’ the sky for my roof—
That ’ave ridden my ’unger an’ thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof,
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup,
An’ the Brandwater Basin for dish,—
Oh! it’s ’ard to be’ave as they wish,
(Too ’ard, an’ a little too soon),
I’ll ’ave to think over it first—
Me!
I will arise an’ get ’ence;—
I will trek South and make sure
If it’s only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,
An’ there’s somethin’ gone small with the lot;
For I know of a sun an’ a wind,
An’ some plains and a mountain be’ind,
An’ some graves by a barb-wire fence;
An’ a Dutchman I’ve fought ’oo might give
Me a job were I ever inclined,
To look in an’ offsaddle an’ live
Where there’s neither a road nor a tree—
But only my Maker an’ me,
And I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an’ see.
M. I.
(MOUNTED INFANTRY OF THE LINE)
I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm,
And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm,
Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn’t buy.
I used to be in the Yorkshires once
(Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once),
Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.)
But now I am M. I.
That is what we are known as—that is the name you must call
If you want officers’ servants, pickets an’ ’orse-guards an’ all—
Details for buryin’-parties, company-cooks or supply—
Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the ——[1] M. I.!
My ’ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an’ frill,
An’ the things I’ve used my bay’nit for would make a tinker ill!
An’ I don’t know whose dam’ column I’m in, nor where we’re trekkin’ nor why.
I’ve trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once—
From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once—
(Or else it was called the Zambesi once)—
For now I am M. I.
That is what we are known as—we are the push you require
For outposts all night under freezin’, an’ rear-guard all day under fire.
Anything ’ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry?
Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the —— M. I.!