THE FLYING COLUMN.

Evening Star, Issue 11724, 5 April 1902, Page 2

THE FLYING COLUMN.

Once we was 'raging around the *reHi and always losing the way. Trekking about fike the laraelite»»oß a bob and a 'arf a day, And draggin' a big pantesjafcoo, wot we called the Grand 'Otel, With a kitchen range for the officers, and a Dutch pianny as welL The colonel rode on an old grey meant; and 'is Christian name wa« Gay, And 'e owned a bloonrin' eelyeigiaif * wot *e wore in Is off-side eye. That was when we were dom' the grand, like the 'onSehold cavalry. And 'uniping a lot of useless things, aixl dressed like a Obriatmas tree. Till Kitchener come along one day, and *e sez to us, ser 'e : "'Ow would yer like to take a ride with General Knot and mef" 'E gave me a foreign sort of moke, wet *e called an Argenteeii, But I've christened 'im now, tho' 'e ain't no flyin' machine. I've tried that 'ard to knock some sens* inside of his silly 'ead With the butt of my old Lee-lletford, bat 'e bucks me orf instead; And 'e waltzes round and 'e pawS'the ground with a vicious look in 'is eye, As much as to say: "You'd better walk before yon begin to fly." Oh, 'e 'as two legs forrid and two legs acft, and a toast-rack slung between, And a great big slopin' forrid where 'i» Intellect should have been; And once aboard of that raw-backed mount you never know where you'll land; It's hke bookin' for Kew on a pinrt. bus, and they drops yer in the Strand. When the moon turns out on seritry-go, ard the clouds go racin' by, The major 'e comes to 'is sleepin' troop with a knowin' look in 'is eye; And 'o kicks at the ragged sergeant, and the sergeant 'e kicks at me. Till I'm up aboard of my raw-backed mount, and looks for my company ; And I stares about like a blinded owl where the steamin' mists 'ftng low. For there ain't no street lamps along tLc road to tell you where to go. Oh, yer feels that tired and 'eavy that you wonders 'oo you are! Whether you're Alice in Wonderland or a toy in a ■ bazaar: Then you're oil' tike 'el! to a night attack. Aye! that is the game you play, Lookin' round for the 'iddcri death and findin' it every day.

I If there ain't no pubs at tiie side Of the i road where a mail can get a Wet. ! There's a little Dutch farm Where a little j JJutch pirl will 'old ycr 'orse, you bet. And she'll talk to you, and she'll flirt with I vou, with a kiiowin' look in 'cr eye. Till it's " korfc.e-o-lay" in the diirin' room before you say good-bye. But if you ain't a. fool, and you like to shine p--- a (irs-t-rlifs farmyard scottl. You must keep your eye on the Bushmen's corps when the rlyin' cohimtj's out; ; You must watch Mm drawin' a cordon round | some bloomin' hnrpher's farm, ', And tellin' the old Dutch Missus that 'o ; don't, inraii any arm : : You mirst wafoh 'im pneattin' the ducks »nd | fowls till there n,in't none left at. all. I And 'is Ai'jjcntren is loaded up like a Far- ! riujidon poultry si all. 1 11. isn't the. fear of a well-laid trap, nor the spattorin' shower of lead Thai, meets the thirsty, worn-out troop when it 'all* in the donga, bed} And it, isn'l. the freozin'. starless niffht, nor the blindin' Y»t of the day, Nor the slow, long, sullen, dusty trek that wears your 'eart away. H's lb" fli'ikin' couch of a wounded man 'oo's tight in' 'ard for breath, And your chum drops off like a tired thing, and /inds the 'idden death. K's the siph! of that rideriess, raw-backed mount that follows you all the way. Till a blarstcd shell from the kopje side rp» 'arf of 'is ribs away. That is the life of the flyin' gansr, the columns that never tire. Snatchin' an our of broken rest at a smoulderin' block'ouse fire. Thnt is the life the troopers lead, That, is the game they play, Where the nicht-lonp, moving oolamn* ride From the dusk to the break of day. —MunTO Anderson, in the London 'Dily Express.'