Barrack Room Ballads

Oonts

   (Northern India Transport Train)

   Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
   It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire;
   But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' road
   For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load.
       O the oont, O the oont, O the commissariat oont!
        With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes;
       We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt,
        An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks.

   Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in,
   An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin?
   It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills,
   It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills!
       O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!
        A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm!
       We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front,
        An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm.

   The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool,
   The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule;
   But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done,
   'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one.
       O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!
        The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies,
       'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,
        An' when we get him up again—the beggar goes an' dies!

   'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight—'e smells most awful vile;
   'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile;
   'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through,
   An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two.
       O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont!
        When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim,
       The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front—
        It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im.

   So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind,
   An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind,
   Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past:
   'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last.
       O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont!
        The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies;
       We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front,
        But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies.