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.
Oh, strike your camp an' go, ...
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!"
Oh, strike your camp an' go, ...
'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!
Oh, strike your camp an' go, ...
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.
Oh, strike your camp an' go, ...
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.
Oh, strike your camp an' go, ...
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!)
recording: Peter Bellamy (1977) [YouTube]
text: original poem [Kipling Society]