(Regular Of The Line)

I do not love my Empire’s foes, Nor call ’em angels; still, What is the sense of ’atin’ those ’Oom you are paid to kill? So, barrin’ all that foreign lot Which only joined for spite, Myself, I’d just as soon as not Respect the man I fight. Ah there, Piet!--’is trousies to ’is knees, ’Is coat-tails lyin’ level in the bullet-sprinkled breeze; ’E does not lose ’is rifle an’ ’e does not lose ’is seat, I’ve known a lot o’ people ride a dam’ sight worse than Piet!

I’ve ’eard ’im cryin’ from the ground Like Abel’s blood of old, An’ skirmished out to look, an’ found The beggar nearly cold; I’ve waited on till ’e was dead (Which couldn’t ’elp ’im much), But many grateful things ’e’s said To me for doin’ such. Ah there, Piet! whose time ’as come to die, ’Is carcase past rebellion, but ’is eyes inquirin’ why. Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o’ rank complete, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers go a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

An’ when there wasn’t aught to do But camp and cattle-guards, I’ve fought with ’im the ’ole day through At fifteen ’undred yards; Long afternoons o’ lyin’ still, An’ ’earin’ as you lay The bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill Like scythes among the ’ay. Ah there, Piet!--be’ind ’is stony kop, With ’is Boer bread an’ biltong, an’ ’is flask of awful Dop; ’Is Mauser for amusement an’ ’is pony for retreat, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers shoot a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

He’s shoved ’is rifle ’neath my nose Before I’d time to think, An’ borrowed all my Sunday clo’es An’ sent me ’ome in pink; An’ I ’ave crept (Lord, ’ow I’ve crept!) On ’ands an’ knees I’ve gone, And spoored and floored and caught and kept An’ sent him to Ceylon! Ah there, Piet!--you’ve sold me many a pup, When week on week alternate it was you an’ me ‘’ands up!’ But though I never made you walk man-naked in the ’eat, I’ve known a lot of fellows stalk a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

From Plewman’s to Marabastad, From Ookiep to De Aar, Me an’ my trusty friend ’ave ’ad, As you might say, a war; But seein’ what both parties done Before ’e owned defeat, I ain’t more proud of ’avin’ won, Than I am pleased with Piet. Ah there, Piet!--picked up be’ind the drive! The wonder wasn’t ’ow ’e fought, but ’ow ’e kep’ alive, With nothin’ in ’is belly, on ’is back, or to ’is feet-- I’ve known a lot o’ men behave a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

No more I’ll ’ear ’is rifle crack Along the block’ouse fence-- The beggar’s on the peaceful tack, Regardless of expense. For countin’ what ’e eats an’ draws, An’ gifts an’ loans as well, ’E’s gettin’ ’alf the Earth, because ’E didn’t give us ’Ell! Ah there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough, Your gratis tents an’ cattle, an’ your most ungrateful frow. You’ve made the British taxpayer rebuild your country-seat-- I’ve known some pet battalions charge a dam’ sight less than Piet.

‘WILFUL-MISSING’

There is a world outside the one you know, To which for curiousness ’Ell can’t compare-- It is the place where ‘wilful-missings’ go, As we can testify, for we are there.

You may ’ave read a bullet laid us low, That we was gathered in ‘with reverent care’ And buried proper. But it was not so, As we can testify, for we are there.

They can’t be certain--faces alter so After the old aasvogel’s ’ad ’is share; The uniform’s the mark by which they go-- And--ain’t it odd?--the one we best can spare.

We might ’ave seen our chance to cut the show-- Name, number, record, an’ begin elsewhere-- Leavin’ some not too late-lamented foe One funeral--private--British--for ’is share.

We may ’ave took it yonder in the Low Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin’ unaware Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go, An’ they are left past call or count or care.

We might ’ave been your lovers long ago, ’Usbands or children--comfort or despair. Our death (an’ burial) settles all we owe, An’ why we done it is our own affair.

Marry again, and we will not say no, Nor come to bastardise the kids you bear: Wait on in ’ope--you’ve all your life below Before you’ll ever ’ear us on the stair.

There is no need to give our reasons, though Gawd knows we all ’ad reasons which were fair; But other people might not judge ’em so, And now it doesn’t matter what they were.

What man can size or weigh another’s woe? There are some things too bitter ’ard to bear. Suffice it we ’ave finished--Domino! As we can testify, for we are there, In the side-world where ‘wilful-missings’ go.

UBIQUE

There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may-- ‘You bike,’ ‘you bykwe,’ ‘ubbikwe’--alludin’ to R.A. It serves ’Orse, Field, an’ Garrison as motto for a crest, An’ when you’ve found out all it means I’ll tell you ’alf the rest.

Ubique means the long-range Krupp be’ind the low-range ’ill-- Ubique means you’ll pick it up an’ while you do stand still. Ubique means you’ve caught the flash an’ timed it by the sound. Ubique means five gunners’ ’ash before you’ve loosed a round.

Ubique means Blue Fuse, an’ make the ’ole to sink the trail. Ubique means stand up an’ take the Mauser’s ’alf-mile ’ail. Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can ’old. Ubique means that ’orse’s scream which turns your innards cold!

Ubique means ‘Bank, ’Olborn, Bank--a penny all the way’-- The soothin’, jingle-bump-an’-clank from day to peaceful day. Ubique means ‘They’ve caught De Wet, an’ now we shan’t be long.’ Ubique means ‘I much regret, the beggar’s goin’ strong!’

Ubique means the tearin’ drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud, The khaki muzzles duck an’ lift across the khaki flood. Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers. Ubique means mirage again an’ shellin’ all outdoors.

Ubique means ‘Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein’! Ubique means ‘Off-load your guns’--at midnight in the rain! Ubique means ‘More mounted men. Return all guns to store.’ Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps!

Ubique means that warnin’ grunt the perished linesman knows, When o’er ’is strung an’ sufferin’ front the shrapnel sprays ’is foes; An’ as their firin’ dies away the ’usky whisper runs From lips that ’aven’t drunk all day: ‘The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!’

Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any’ow, From Colesberg Kop to Quagga’s Poort--from Ninety-Nine till now-- By what I’ve ’eard the others tell an’ I in spots ’ave seen, There’s nothin’ this side ’Eaven or ’Ell Ubique doesn’t mean!

THE RETURN