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Edward Dyson - Billy Khaki
Work rating: Low

Marching somewhat out of order 
   when the band is cock-a-hoop, 
There`s a lilting kind of magic in the swagger 
   of the troop, 
Swinging all aboard the steamer with her 
   nose toward the sea. 
What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you`re foot- 
   ing it so free? 

Though his lines are none too level, 
   And he lacks a bit of style. 
And he`s swanking like the devil 
   Where the women wave and smile, 
He will answer with a rifle 
   Trim and true from stock to bore, 
Where the comrades crouch and stifle 
   In the reeking pit of war. 

What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is 
   thunder down the sky, 
And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn- 
   ing with its cry, 
While your feet are beating rhythms up the 
   dusty hills and down, 
And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow 
   of the town. 

Billy Khaki, is`t the splendor of the song the 
   kiddies sing, 
Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets 
   your heart a-swing? 
Is`t the cheering like a paean of the toss- 
   ing, teeming crowds, 
Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping 
   on the clouds ? 

What`s calling, calling, Billy? `Tis the rattle 
    far away 
Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play; 
`Tis the great gun`s fierce concussion, and the 
   smell of seven hells 
When the long ranks go to pieces in the 
   sneezing of the shells. 

But your eyes are laughing, Billy, and a 
   ribald song you sing, 
While the old men sit and tell us war it is a 
   ghastly thing, 
When the swift machines are busy and the 
   grim, squat fortress nocks 
At your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks. 

When the horses sweep upon you to complete 
   a sudden rout, 
Or in fire and smoke and fury some brave 
   regiment goes out, 
War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full well 
   you know the rest, 
Yet your heart is for the battle, and your face 
   is to the west. 

For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picture 
   something worse— 
There`s the wrecking of an empire, and its 
   broken people`s curse; 
There are nations reft of freedom, and of hope 
   and kindly mirth, 
And the shadow of an evil black upon the 
   bitter earth. 

So we know what`s calling, Billy. `Tis the 
   spirit of our race, 
And its stir is in your pulses, and its light is 
   on your face 
As you march with clipping boot-heels 
   through the piping, howling town 
To uphold the land we live in, and to pull a 
   tyrant down. 

Thou his lines are none too level, 
   And he`s not a whale for style, 
And he`s swanking like the devil 
   When the women wave and smile 
He will answer with a rifle, 
   Trim and true from stuck to bore, 
When the comrades sit and stifle 
   In the smoking pit of war.
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