Verses 1889-1896 - Rudyard Kipling

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type="note">1, 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.

      LOOT

        If you’ve ever stole a pheasant-egg be’ind the keeper’s back,

         If you’ve ever snigged the washin’ from the line,

        If you’ve ever crammed a gander in your bloomin’ ‘aversack,

         You will understand this little song o’ mine.

        But the service rules are ‘ard, an’ from such we are debarred,

         For the same with English morals does not suit.

            (Cornet:  Toot! toot!)

        W’y, they call a man a robber if ‘e stuffs ‘is marchin’ clobber

         With the —

        (Chorus)  Loo! loo!  Lulu! lulu!  Loo! loo!  Loot! loot! loot!

                       Ow the loot!

                       Bloomin’ loot!

                    That’s the thing to make the boys git up an’ shoot!

                     It’s the same with dogs an’ men,

                     If you’d make ‘em come again

                    Clap ‘em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot!

            (ff)  Whoopee!  Tear ‘im, puppy!  Loo! loo! Lulu!  Loot! loot! loot!

        If you’ve knocked a nigger edgeways when ‘e’s thrustin’ for your life,

         You must leave ‘im very careful where ‘e fell;

        An’ may thank your stars an’ gaiters if you didn’t feel ‘is knife

         That you ain’t told off to bury ‘im as well.

        Then the sweatin’ Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under

         Why lootin’ should be entered as a crime;

        So if my song you’ll ‘ear, I will learn you plain an’ clear

         ‘Ow to pay yourself for fightin’ overtime.

        (Chorus)  With the loot,.

        Now remember when you’re ‘acking round a gilded Burma god

         That ‘is eyes is very often precious stones;

        An’ if you treat a nigger to a dose o’ cleanin’-rod

         ‘E’s like to show you everything ‘e owns.

        When ‘e won’t prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor

         Where you ‘ear it answer ‘ollow to the boot

            (Cornet:  Toot! toot!) —

        When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,

         An’ you’re sure to touch the —

        (Chorus)  Loo! loo!  Lulu!   Loot! loot! loot!

                       Ow the loot!.

        When from ‘ouse to ‘ouse you’re ‘unting, you must always work in pairs —

         It ‘alves the gain, but safer you will find —

        For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,

         An’ a woman comes and clobs ‘im from be’ind.

        When you’ve turned ‘em inside out, an’ it seems beyond a doubt

         As if there weren’t enough to dust a flute

            (Cornet:  Toot! toot!) —

        Before you sling your ‘ook, at the ‘ousetops take a look,

         For it’s underneath the tiles they ‘ide the loot.

        (Chorus)  Ow the loot!.

        You can mostly square a Sergint an’ a Quartermaster too,

         If you

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