SCREW-GUNS.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,

I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule,

With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets

It's only the pick o' the Army that handles the dear little pets-Tss! Tss!

For you

all love the screw-guns-the screw guns they all love you.

So when we call round with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do-hoo! hoo!

Jest send in your Chief an' surrender—it's worse if you fights or you runs:

You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns.

They send us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't;

We'd climb up the side of a sign-board, an' trust to the stick o' the paint;

We've chivied the Naga an' Lushai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits,

For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are built in two bits-Tss! Tss! For you all love the screw-guns

If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to be'ave;

If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave.

You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss.

D' you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us-Tss! Tss! For all love the screw-guns

you

The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's amoanin' below,

We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow,

An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains

The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules-the jinglety-jink o' the chains-Tss! Tss! For you all love the screw-guns

There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin, an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit,

28

An' a drop into nothin' beneath us as straight as a beggar can spit;

With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves an' the sun off the snow in your face,

An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 'er place-Tss! Tss!

For you all love the screw-guns

Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,

I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule.

The monkey can say what our road was-the wildgoat 'e knows where we passed.

Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! Out dragropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast!-Tss! Tss!

For you all love the screw-guns—the screw-guns they all love you!

So when we take tea with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do-hoo! hoo!

Just send in your Chief and surrenderit's worse if you fights or you runs: You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, but you don't get away from the guns!