We've the cholerer in camp -- and it's worse than forty fights;
And we're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;
It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away,
An' the doctor's just reported that we've ten more to-day!
[Chorus]
Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin',
The Rains are fallin' --
The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below;
The Band's a-doin' all they can to cheer us;
The Chaplain's gone and prayed to God to hear us --
To hear us --
O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so!
Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail,
Though they've 'ad us out by marches and they've 'ad us back by rail;
But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away;
An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day.
And there ain't no fun in women and there ain't no bite to drink;
It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march and think;
An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say,
"Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!"
[Chorus]
And it would make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things --
Lieutenants takin' companies and captains takin' wings,
An' Lances actin' Sergeants -- eight file to obey --
Oh yes, there's lots of promotion on ten deaths a day!
Our Colonel's white an' twitterly -- and 'e gets no sleep nor food,
But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good.
And he sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay --
But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day.
[Chorus]
Our Chaplain he's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides,
An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!
With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-dee-ay!
'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day.
We've got the cholerer in camp -- we've got it 'ot an' sweet;
It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's served an' we must eat.
We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay,
An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day!
So strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin',
The Bugle's callin'!
The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below!
An' them that do not like it they can lump it,
An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it;
We've got to die somewhere -- some way -- some'ow --
Se we might as well begin to do it now!
So, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,
Knock out the pegs an' hold the corners -- so!
Furl up the ropes, furl up the ropes, an' stow!
Oh, strike -- oh, strike your camp an' go!
