Edgar Wallace - Writ in Barracks

A tent that is pitched at the base:
A wagon that comes from the night:
A stretcher – and on it a Case:
A surgeon, who's holding a light.
The Infantry's bearing the brunt —
O hark to the wind-carried cheer!
A mutter of guns at the front:
A whimper of sobs at the rear.
And it's War ! 'Orderly, hold the light.
You can lay him down on the table: so.
Easily – gently! Thanks – you may go.'
And it's War! but the part that is not for show.

A tent, with a table athwart,
A table that's laid out for one;
A waterproof cover – and nought
But the limp, mangled work of a gun.
A bottle that's stuck by the pole,
A guttering dip in its neck;
The flickering light of a soul
On the wondering eyes of The Wreck,
And it's War ! 'Orderly, hold his hand.
I'm not going to hurt you, so don't be afraid.
A ricochet! God! what a mess it has made!'
And it's War ! and a very unhealthy trade.

The clink of a stopper and glass:
A sigh as the chloroform drips:
A trickle of – what? on the grass,
And bluer and bluer the lips.
The lashes have hidden the stare…
A rent, and the clothes fall away…
A touch, and the wound is laid bare…
A cut, and the face has turned grey…
And it's War ! 'Orderly, take It out.
It's hard for his child, and it's rough on his wife,
There might have been – sooner – a chance for his life.
But it's War ! And – Orderly, clean this knife!'

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
'Ere's some 'cruities for inspection, —
Some in rags, an' some in cuffs.
Some in shirts, an' some without 'em,
Wot a blessed strange collection!
Served before? You needn't doubt 'em,
Bloomin' muffs!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
Take your sword, an' drop your lancet,
Teach your nurses 'ow to fight!
'Ow to march the dead march – solemn!
'Ow to route march – an' to dance it!
Teach 'em 'ow to march in column,
By the right!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
Gold an' velvet! 'broidered lacin's,
'Oldin' 'igh your bloomin' 'ead!
'Seen you peel that coat so winnin',
'Seen you stain them pretty facin's,
'Seen your 'ighly glossy linen,
Splattered red!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
'Sun is 'ot – an' we are learnin'
Lessons in the cholera school,
We're fear-sick, an' mad as 'atters,
Throat a-parchin', 'ead a-burnin',
Seems to me, you're takin' matters
Rather cool!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
Spurs and swagger! Cuff an' collar!
Up to ev'ry bloomin' trick!
'Seen you – as I've seen none other —
Go to – where I dursn't foller!
'Seen you act the man and brother
To the sick!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
Things by Engineers forgotten,
You 'ave got to recollect.
Tho' you're such a gilded dandy,
When the meat is goin' rotten,
Chances are, you're somewhere 'andy
To inspect!

Army Doctor! Army Doctor!
Where the firin' never ceases,
Where the 'uddled soldier lies,
Where the Mauser bullets shave 'im,
Gawd! they're chippin' 'im to pieces!
Git 'im out of fire an' save 'im…
Well done, Guys!

They gave their best at Waterloo,
For the honour of England's name;
They threw their best on a hundred fields,
To put our foes to shame.
'Tis good that England's soldier men
To-day can do the same.

They have proved their worth,
To the ends of the earth.
They have striven and won, – and failed!
They have shown their might,
On the Dargai Height,
When the mollah's bullets hailed.

They have laid their dead,
In the river bed,
On the site of their last brave stand.
They have buried at night,
By a lantern light,
In a grave that they scooped in the sand.

And far and wide,
They have done and died,
By donga, and veldt, and kloof.
And the lonely grave,
Of the honoured brave,
Is a proof – if we need a proof,

They won – and died,
And we glorified
The men of the barrack schools.
They died – and failed,
And in wrath we railed
At the fault of the bungling fools!

And perhaps it is good
That we change our mood,
And perchance it is well to blame,
And to seek elsewhere,
For some men to bear,
The weight of our foolish shame.

But the fight hard fought,
Must it go for nought
Because of its hapless turn?
Must we then withhold,
For the life hard sold,
The Honour it died to earn?

When hot and tired,
With the last round fired,
And never a ray of hope —
What then the shame?
They were just the same
Who charged Talana's slope!

You may give and take,
As the shrapnels rake,
When your batt'ry has replied;
But you cannot live
When there's too much give,
From the guns on the open side.

Good men are they,
Who gain the day, —
And victory is sweet, —
And just as brave
Who do not rave
At every small defeat.

For the fight hard fought
Must not go for nought,
Because of its hapless turn;
Nor we withhold,
For the life hard sold,
The Honour it died to earn.

We gave our best at Waterloo,
For the honour of England's name;
We threw our best on a hundred fields
To put our foes to shame.
'Tis good that England's soldier men
To-day can do the same.

We met without appointment on an 'ill,
I comed upon the beggar without warnin';
Layin' down be'ind a boulder,
With 'is rifle to 'is shoulder,
He sent along wot's Dutch for a 'Good-mornin'.'
'E missed me with a fair amount of skill,
An' 'fore 'e'd time to mount, an' get from danger,
I was takin' of my rest,
By a sittin' on 'is chest,
An' a sayin' to the welcome little stranger: —

'My pal, the Boer!
You're a prisoner of war'
('E tried to break my jaw, but that's a trifle);
'You can't escape me, can yer?
In the name of Rule Britannia,
I commandeer your 'orse an' Mauser rifle!'

You wouldn't call 'is manners over bright,
An' you wouldn't term 'is disposition sunny,
An' 'e 'ad a silly notion
That the cause of the commotion
Was Chamberlain a-fightin' for 'is money;
An' 'e fancied that the British flag was white —
'Twas a silly fancy – still we must excuse it,
When the Lancers came along
'E felt a trifle bong !
'E soon found out the proper way to use it!

My pal, the Boer,
Ain't used to proper war,
But tho' 'e scorns the flag an' does the grandy,
The 'igh an' mighty scorner,
When we get 'im in a corner,
'E FINDS A FLAG OF TRUCE IS MIGHTY 'ANDY!