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Rudyard Kipling - Cholera Camp
Work rating: Low

We`ve got the cholerer in camp — it`s worse than forty fights;
 We`re dyin` in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;
It`s before us, an` be`ind us, an` we cannot get away,
 An` the doctor`s just reported we`ve ten more to-day!
 
     Oh, strike your camp an` go, the Bugle`s callin`,
        The Rains are fallin` —
     The dead are bushed an` stoned to keep `em safe below;
     The Band`s a-doin` all she knows to cheer us;
     The Chaplain`s gone and prayed to Gawd to `ear us —
        To `ear us —
     O Lord, for it`s a-killin` of us so!
 
Since August, when it started, it`s been stickin` to our tail,
Though they`ve `ad us out by marches an` they`ve `ad us back by rail;
But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away;
An` the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day.
 
There ain`t no fun in women nor there ain`t no bite to drink;
It`s much too wet for shootin`, we can only march and think;
An` at evenin`, down the ~nullahs~, we can `ear the jackals say,
"Get up, you rotten beggars, you`ve ten more to-day!"
 
`Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o` doin` things —
Lieutenants takin` companies an` captains takin` wings,
An` Lances actin` Sergeants — eight file to obey —
For we`ve lots o` quick promotion on ten deaths a day!
 
Our Colonel`s white an` twitterly — `e gets no sleep nor food,
But mucks about in `orspital where nothing does no good.
`E sends us `eaps o` comforts, all bought from `is pay —
But there aren`t much comfort `andy on ten deaths a day.
 
Our Chaplain`s got a banjo, an` a skinny mule `e rides,
An` the stuff `e says an` sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!
With `is black coat-tails a-bobbin` to ~Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!~
`E`s the proper kind o` ~padre~ for ten deaths a day.
 
An` Father Victor `elps `im with our Roman Catholicks —
He knows an `eap of Irish songs an` rummy conjurin` tricks;
An` the two they works together when it comes to play or pray;
So we keep the ball a-rollin` on ten deaths a day.
 
We`ve got the cholerer in camp — we`ve got it `ot an` sweet;
It ain`t no Christmas dinner, but it`s `elped an` we must eat.
We`ve gone beyond the funkin`, `cause we`ve found it doesn`t pay,
An` we`re rockin` round the Districk on ten deaths a day!
 
     Then strike your camp an` go, the Rains are fallin`,
        The Bugle`s callin`!
     The dead are bushed an` stoned to keep `em safe below!
     An` them that do not like it they can lump it,
     An` them that cannot stand it they can jump it;
     We`ve got to die somewhere — some way — some`ow —
     We might as well begin to do it now!
     Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,
     Knock out the pegs an` `old the corners — so!
     Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an` stow!
     Oh, strike — oh, strike your camp an` go!
        (Gawd `elp us!)
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