LITMIR.BIZ

      There's risk on the ballasted roadway,

      There's death on the girdered bridge,

      Red ruin from sleeper to sleeper,

      And wreck on the bouldered ridge.

      No signal to herald my coming,

      No whistle to waken the plain;

      Stand clear – I am out for patrolling!

      Make way for the Armoured Train!

      I run not to time, nor to table,

      I'm neither an 'Up' nor a 'Down,'

      But 'Full speed ahead' is my order,

      When skirting the enemy's town.

      My mails have a backing of cordite,

      My luggage is powder and shell,

      With smoke-stack a-blazing I thunder,

      A traveller's sample of Hell!

      They have laid me a mine by a culvert,

      They have loosened a bolt by a curve,

      But thrice-tested steel is my muscle,

      And thrice-tested brass is my nerve.

      A curse for their bungling folly,

      A laugh for the death-trap that fails,

      A hang for the enemy's miner,

      So long as I keep to the rails.

      A cheer – and I pull from the township

      To spy out the enemy's line;

      A plunge – and I rush into darkness

      As reckless of wreckage as mine.

      And what if a rail has been lifted?

      And what if a river's unspanned?

      I fail, but I know in the failing

      I strove at the Empire's command.

      They were men who at Badajos conquered,

      They were men who for Wellington struck,

      And a Man is the Man at the Throttle,

      And a Man is the Man on the Truck.

      Undismayed I may go to destruction.

      For I know at the end I may feel

      I die with the men on the footplate,

      I pass with my brothers in steel.

      When the depôt soldier's dinin' on three-quarters of a pound,

      If there's too much bone to please 'im, or the meat is extry tough,

      'E 'as got a chance of grousin' when 'is orficer goes round,

      'E can draw upon the mess-book, if 's rations ain't enough.

      But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!

      When you're cut orf from the column, an' supplies are runnin' low,

      It ain't no 'too much fat, sir!'

      But it's bread – an' glad of that, sir!

      O it's bake your own arrangements – out of flour – as you go!

      When the depôt soldier's on parade 'e sparkles an' 'e shines.

      When the depôt soldier's drillin' 'e must make each motion 'tell.'

      When the depôt soldier's marchin' 'e must march on drill-book lines.

      'E 'as got a drill-instructor, an' 'e does it very well.

      But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!

      When the camp is rushed at midnight, an' you're fallin' in – to die!

      O there ain't no drill-rules set there,

      But it's take your gun – an' get there!

      When you make your own arrangements, you must grab your belt an' fly.

      The depôt soldier's grounded in a systematic drill;

      'E also knows wot's 'rendezvous' an' what is 'bivouac.'

      'E knows the use of rifle-pits, the proper way to kill —

      'E understands the principles an' the'ries of attack.

      But it's make your own arrangements! Make your own arrangements!

      When you're dodgin' tons of boulder, climbin' mount'ins under fire,

      An' the drill-book won't assist you

      Till the fallin' rocks 'ave missed you!

      So you make your own arrangements – an' you climb a little 'igher!

      When the depôt soldier's wantin' with 'is orficer to speak,

      'E must 'alt two paces from 'im, an' salute before the start.

      An' 'e mustn't try to argue, an' 'e mustn't give no cheek;

      An'

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