CHANT-PAGAN Me that 'ave rode through the dark Along the Ma'ollisberg Range, An' 'mind you come back with the change!' Me that saw Barberton took Me! When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead, An' they 'ove the guns over and fled- My livin' in that state of life To which it shall please God to call Me! Me that 'ave followed my trade In the place where the lightnin's are made, Three years an' the sky for my roof- I will arise an' get 'ence; I will trek South and make sure That the sunshine of England is pale, Me! An' there's somethin' gone small with the lot; For I know of a sun an' a wind, An' some plains and a mountain be'ind, An' some graves by a barb-wire fence; An' a Dutchman I've fought 'oo might give Me a job were I ever inclined, To look in an' offsaddle an' live Where there's neither a road nor a tree But only my Maker an' me, And I think it will kill me or cure, M. I. (Mounted Infantry of the Line) WISH my mother could see me now, with a fencepost under my arm, And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm, Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn't buy. I used to be in the Yorkshires once (Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once), Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.) But now I am M. I. That is what we are known as-that is the name you must call If you want officers' servants, pickets an' 'orseguards an' all Details for buryin'-parties, company-cooks or supplyTurn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the—1M. I.! My 'ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an' frill, An' the things I've used my bay'nit for would make a tinker ill! 'Number according to taste and service of audience. An' I don't know whose dam' column I'm in, nor where we're trekkin' nor why. I've trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once- That is what we are known as-we are the push you require For outposts all night under freezin', an' rearguard all day under fire. Anything 'ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry? Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the-M. I.! Our Sergeant-Major's a subaltern, our Captain's a Fusilier Our Adjutant's 'late of Somebody's 'Orse,' an' a Melbourne auctioneer; But you couldn't spot us at 'arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry. They used to talk about Lancers once, 'Elmets, pistols, an' carbines once, But now we are M. I. That is what we are known as-we are the orphans they blame For beggin' the loan of an 'ead-stall an' makin' a mount to the same: 'Can't even look at an 'orselines but some one goes bellerin' 'Hi! 'Ere comes a burglin' Ikona!' Footsack you-M. I.! We're trekkin' our twenty miles a day an' bein' loved by the Dutch, But we don't hold on by the mane no more, nor lose our stirrups much; An' we scout with a senior man in charge where the 'oly white flags fly. We used to think they were friendly once, (Once, my ducky, an' only once!) But now we are M. I. That is what we are known as-we are the beggars that got Three days 'to learn equitation,' an' six months o' bloomin' well trot! Cow-guns, an' cattle, an' convoys-an' Mister De Wet on the fly We are the rollin' Ikonas! We are the-M. I.! The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin' vain V. C.'s (The same as our talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes1), But our words o' command are 'Scatter' an' 'Close' an' 'Let your wounded lie.' We used to rescue 'em noble once, Givin' the range as we raised 'em once, But now we are M. I. 1Horse-holders when in action, and therefore generally under cover. |