COMMISSARIAT CAMELS

We haven't a camelty tune of our own To help us trollop along, But every neck is a hair trombone (Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair trombone!) And this our marching-song: Can't! Don't! Shan't! Won't! Pass it along the line! Somebody's pack has slid from his back, Wish it were only mine! Somebody's load has tipped off in the road-- Cheer for a halt and a row! Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh! Somebody's catching it now!

ALL THE BEASTS TOGETHER

Children of the Camp are we, Serving each in his degree; Children of the yoke and goad, Pack and harness, pad and load. See our line across the plain, Like a heel-rope bent again, Reaching, writhing, rolling far, Sweeping all away to war! While the men that walk beside, Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed, Cannot tell why we or they March and suffer day by day. Children of the Camp are we, Serving each in his degree; Children of the yoke and goad, Pack and harness, pad and load!