Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;

Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.

We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it was n't hardly fair;

But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.

'E 'as n't got no papers of 'is own,

'E 'as n't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e 's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords :
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear.
A 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last a 'ealthy Tommy for a year.

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends
which is no more,

If we 'ad n't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;

But give an' take 's the gospel, an' we 'll call the bargain fair,

For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square !

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,

An', before we know, 'e 's 'ackin' at our 'ead ;

'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,

An' 'e's generally shammin' when he 's dead.

'E's a daisy, 'e 's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,

'E's the only thing that does n't care a damn For the Regiment o' British Infantry.

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Sowdan;

You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;

An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air

-

You big black boundin' beggar · for you bruk a
British square.

OONTS!

Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?

It is n't standin' up to charge or 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 a idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt,

An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girthrope breaks.

Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when the night is drorin' in,

An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin!
It ain't the chanst o' bein' rushed by Paythans from

the 'ills,

It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is blessed

frills!

O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy, scary oont ! A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm;

Song of the Northern India transport train.

Oonts- camels. Properly with the x as in bull, but here to rhyme with grunts.

Paythan -an Afghan, or hill-tribesman.

Oonts!

We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front,

An' when we've saved his 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 baggage-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 'umpy-lumpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e

lies,

'E's blocked the 'ole division from the rear-guard to the front,

An' when we gets 'im up again— the beggar goes and dies!

'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight; 'e smells most awful vile;

'E'll lose 'imself forever 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 an' the tribes is up in front,

It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites and 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,

O then we strips 'is saddle off, an' all 'is woes is past: 'E thinks on us that used 'im so, an' gets revenge at

last.

O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont! The late lamented camel in the water-cut he lies; We keeps a mile behind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front,

But 'e gets into the drinkin' casks, an' then o' course we dies.