Part 18

Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face. 'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.' So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.

They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.

The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.

He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know; 'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day. Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,' and he jumped for him straight away.

He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van. It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride, And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.'

He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day, You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.'

He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., 'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.'

So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.

There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down

When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, Without a care or trouble on your mind, And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, And a clatter on the deck above your crown, And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, 'There's another blessed horse fell down.'

You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, And you curse them as you tumble into bed. Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon, There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, There's another blessed horse fell down.'

And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, And you're all at home with medals on your chest, And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new, It's another blessed horse fell down.'

On the Trek

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, With sun above and silent veldt below; And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now.

In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! we're going on a long job now.

When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, Or you've watched your old mate dying -- with the vultures overhead, Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, I can picture the excitement and the row; But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, For we're going on a long job now.

The Last Parade

With never a sound of trumpet, With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners Lined up for the last parade.

Weary they were and battered, Shoeless, and knocked about; From under their ragged forelocks Their hungry eyes looked out.

And they watched as the old commander Read out, to the cheering men, The Nation's thanks and the orders To carry them home again.

And the last of the old campaigners, Sinewy, lean, and spare -- He spoke for his hungry comrades: 'Have we not done our share?

'Starving and tired and thirsty We limped on the blazing plain; And after a long night's picket You saddled us up again.

'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes When the frost lay snowy-white. Never a halt in the daytime, Never a rest at night!

'We knew when the rifles rattled From the hillside bare and brown, And over our weary shoulders We felt warm blood run down,

'As we turned for the stretching gallop, Crushed to the earth with weight; But we carried our riders through it -- Carried them p'raps too late.

'Steel! We were steel to stand it -- We that have lasted through, We that are old campaigners Pitiful, poor, and few.

'Over the sea you brought us, Over the leagues of foam: Now we have served you fairly Will you not take us home?

'Home to the Hunter River, To the flats where the lucerne grows; Home where the Murrumbidgee Runs white with the melted snows.