Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads






ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER

  A great and glorious thing it is
    To learn, for seven years or so,
  The Lord knows what of that and this,
    Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—
  The flying bullet down the Pass,
  That whistles clear: “All flesh is grass.”

  Three hundred pounds per annum spent
    On making brain and body meeter
  For all the murderous intent
    Comprised in “villainous saltpetre!”
   And after—ask the Yusufzaies
  What comes of all our 'ologies.

  A scrimmage in a Border Station—
    A canter down some dark defile—
  Two thousand pounds of education
    Drops to a ten-rupee jezail—
  The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
  Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

  No proposition Euclid wrote,
    No formulae the text-books know,
  Will turn the bullet from your coat,
    Or ward the tulwar's downward blow
  Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—
  The odds are on the cheaper man.

  One sword-knot stolen from the camp
    Will pay for all the school expenses
  Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
    Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
  But, being blessed with perfect sight,
  Picks off our messmates left and right.

  With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
    The troop-ships bring us one by one,
  At vast expense of time and steam,
    To slay Afridis where they run.

  The “captives of our bow and spear”
   Are cheap—alas! as we are dear.

All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg