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