A valiant comrade crawling near Observed his most supine behaviour, And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer?

Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer.

'You get up on my shoulders, mate, And if we live beyond the firing, I'll get the V.C. sure as fate, Because our blokes is all retiring.

'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he, 'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.'

'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me, I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.

'I'm fairly safe behind this mound, I've worn a hole that seems to fit me; But if you lift me off the ground, It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'

So back towards the firing line Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh!

Remarking 'What a selfish swine!

He might have let me be a hero.'

Fed Up

I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp, A-drawing fire from Koppies -- well, I'm fair fed up.

It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through; Their rifle fire's no cla.s.s at all, it misses me and you; But when they sprinkle sh.e.l.ls around like water from a cup From that there blooming pom-pom gun -- well, I'm fed up.

We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut, I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.

But after all -- What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day, They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away.

The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights, But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights -- Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup, Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.

And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks, They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.

They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead, And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.

Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup, But walking forty miles to fight -- well, I'm fed up!

So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.; They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup, But Bully Beef and Biscuits -- well! I'm fair fed up!

Jock!

There's a soldier that's been doing of his share In the fighting up and down and round about.

He's continually marching here and there And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.

The Boer, you see, he generally runs; But sometimes when he hides behind a rock, And we can't make no impression with the guns, Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!'

Yes, it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.

He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.

For he's hairy and he's hard, And his feet are by the yard, And his face is like the face what's on a clock.

But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- 'Send for Jock!'

The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance, Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.

The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance By holding of their helmets on their head.

And when the Boer has dug himself a trench And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!

Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, With their music that'd terrify an ox!

When the bullets kick the sand You can hear the sharp command -- 'Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!'

And the charge is like a flood When they've warmed the Highland blood Of the Jocks!

Santa Claus

Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call Rose on the midnight air Above the noises of the camp, The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp.

The challenge echoed over all -- Halt! Who goes there?

A quaint old figure clothed in white, He bore a staff of pine, An ivy-wreath was on his head.

'Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said, Advance, for this is Christmas night, And give the countersign.'

'No sign nor countersign have I, Through many lands I roam The whole world over far and wide, To exiles all at Christmastide, From those who love them tenderly I bring a thought of home.

'From English brook and Scottish burn, From cold Canadian snows, From those far lands ye hold most dear I bring you all a greeting here, A frond of a New Zealand fern, A bloom of English rose.

'From faithful wife and loving la.s.s I bring a wish divine, For Christmas blessings on your head.'

'I wish you well,' the sentry said, But here, alas! you may not pa.s.s Without the countersign.'

He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp Re-echoed down the line.

It was not till the morning light The soldiers knew that in the night Old Santa Claus had come to camp Without the countersign.