Rudyard Kipling

«Barrack-Room Ballads». 10. Oonts

     (Northern India Transport Train) 

Wot makes the soldier’s ’eart to penk, 
                    wot makes ’im to perspire?
It isn’t standin’ up to charge 
                    nor 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 an idol, 
                              an’ you ought to ’ear ’im grunt,
          An’ when we gets ’im loaded up 
                              ’is blessed girth-rope breaks.
 
Wot makes the rear-guard swear so ’ard 
                    when night is drorin’ in,
An’ every native follower 
                    is shiverin’ for ’is skin?
It ain’t the chanst o’ being rushed 
                    by Paythans from the ’ills,
It’s the commissariat camel 
                    puttin’ on ’is bloomin’ frills!
          O the oont, O the oont, 
                              O the hairy scary oont!
     		A-trippin’ over tent-ropes 
                              when we’ve got the night alarm!
    	We socks ’im with a stretcher-pole 
                              an’ ’eads ’im off in front,
     		An’ when we’ve saved ‘is 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 battery-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 lumpy-’umpy ’ummin’-bird 
                              a-singin’ where ’e lies,
         ’E’s blocked the whole division 
                              from the rear-guard to the front,
                   An’ when we get him up again – 
                              the beggar goes an’ dies!
 
’E’ll gall an’ chafe an’ lame an’ fight – 
                   ’e smells most awful vile;
’E’ll lose ’isself for ever 
                   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, 
                               and the tribes is out in front –
     		It ain’t no jam for Tommy, 
                               but it’s kites an’ 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,
Ho! then we strips ’is saddle off, 
                    and all ’is woes is past:
’E thinks on us that used ’im so, 
                    and gets revenge at last.
    	O the oont, O the oont, 
                               O the floatin’, bloatin’ oont!
     		The late lamented camel 
                               in the water-cut ’e lies;
    	We keeps a mile be’ind ’im 
                               an’ we keeps a mile in front,
     		But ’e gets into the drinkin’-casks, 
                               and then o’ course we dies.