We haven't a camelty tune of our own
To help us trollop along,
But every neck is a hair-trombone
(_Rtt-ta-ta-ta_! is a hair-trombone!)
And this is our marching-song:
_Can't! Don't! Shan't! Won't!_
Pass it along the line!
Somebody's pack has slid from his back,
'Wish it were only mine!
Somebody's load has tipped off in the road--
Cheer for a halt and a row!
_Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!_
Somebody's catching it now!


ALL THE BEASTS TOGETHER

Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load.
See our line across the plain.
Like a heel-rope bent again,
Beaching, writhing, rolling far.
Sweeping all away to war!
While the men that walk beside,
Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
Cannot tell why we or they
March and suffer day by day.