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Rudyard Kipling - Screw-Guns
Work rating: Low

Smokin` my pipe on the mountings, sniffin` the mornin` cool,
I walks in my old brown gaiters along o` my old brown mule,
With seventy gunners be`ind me, an` never a beggar forgets
It`s only the pick of the Army
          that handles the dear little pets — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you!
    So when we call round with a few guns,
              o` course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo!
    Jest send in your Chief an` surrender —
              it`s worse if you fights or you runs:
    You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,
              but you don`t get away from the guns!
 
They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain`t:
We`d climb up the side of a sign-board an` trust to the stick o` the paint:
We`ve chivied the Naga an` Looshai, we`ve give the Afreedeeman fits,
For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,
          we guns that are built in two bits — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns . . .
 
If a man doesn`t work, why, we drills `im an` teaches `im `ow to behave;
If a beggar can`t march, why, we kills `im an` rattles `im into `is grave.
You`ve got to stand up to our business an` spring without snatchin` or fuss.
D`you say that you sweat with the field-guns?
          By God, you must lather with us — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns . . .
 
The eagles is screamin` around us, the river`s a-moanin` below,
We`re clear o` the pine an` the oak-scrub,
          we`re out on the rocks an` the snow,
An` the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains
The rattle an` stamp o` the lead-mules —
          the jinglety-jink o` the chains — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns . . .
 
There`s a wheel on the Horns o` the Mornin`,
          an` a wheel on the edge o` the Pit,
An` a drop into nothin` beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit:
With the sweat runnin` out o` your shirt-sleeves,
          an` the sun off the snow in your face,
An` `arf o` the men on the drag-ropes
          to hold the old gun in `er place — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns . . .
 
Smokin` my pipe on the mountings, sniffin` the mornin` cool,
I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o` my old brown mule.
The monkey can say what our road was —
          the wild-goat `e knows where we passed.
Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin`s!
          Out drag-ropes!  With shrapnel!  Hold fast — `Tss! `Tss!
    For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you!
    So when we take tea with a few guns,
              o` course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo!
    Jest send in your Chief an` surrender —
              it`s worse if you fights or you runs:
    You may hide in the caves, they`ll be only your graves,
              but you can`t get away from the guns!
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