Cholera Camp
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.
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!”
'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!
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.
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.
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!)
Words in this poem
- banjo n.
- A stringed musical instrument having a head and neck like the guitar, and its body like a tambourine. It has five strings, and is played with the fingers and hands.
- skinny a.
- Consisting, or chiefly consisting, of skin; wanting flesh.
- padre n.
- A Christian priest or monk; -- used in Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Spanish America.
- rummy a.
- Of or pertaining to rum; characteristic of rum; as a rummy flavor.
- furl v. t.
- To draw up or gather into close compass; to wrap or roll, as a sail, close to the yard, stay, or mast, or, as a flag, close to or around its staff, securing it there by a gasket or line. Totten. [Contr. fr. furdle, fr. fardel bundle: cf. F. ferler to furl, OF. fardeler to pack. See Furdle, Fardel, and cf. Farl.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Cholera Camp is in the public domain. This text is taken from Barrack-room ballads, Project Gutenberg ebook #2819; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Rudyard Kipling, Cholera Camp, in Barrack-Room Ballads (1892), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #2819, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/kipling-barrack-room/cholera-camp.html, id L04506.
Form and metre
Cholera Camp is 51 lines in 10 stanzas. The rhyme scheme is AABB, complete in 7 of its 10 stanzas. The metre is iambic heptameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 88%). 96% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 12.2 syllables. 2 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending.
See other poems in iambic heptameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AABB fightsA · isrulitesA · awayB · dayB
- 2 AABCCCB callinA · fallinA · belowB · usC · usC · usC · soB
- 3 AABB tailA · railA · awayB · dayB
- 4 AABB drinkA · thinkA · sayB · dayB
- 5 AABB thingsA · wingsA · obeyB · dayB
- 6 --AA food · good · payA · dayA
- 7 AABB ridesA · sidesA · ayB · dayB
- 8 AABB catholicksA · tricksA · prayB · dayB
- 9 AABB sweetA · eatA · payB · dayB
- 10 AABCCDDBBBB- fallinA · callinA · belowB · itC · itC · some'owD · nowD · slowB · soB · stowB · goB · us
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic heptameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| We've got the cholerer in camp--it's worse than forty fights; | 14 | ···········/˘· |
| We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites; | 13 | ····/˘˘······ |
| It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away, | 14 | ·········/˘·˘/ |
| An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more to-day! | 13 | ··/˘··/˘····· |
| Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin', | 11 | ·······/˘·· |
| The Rains are fallin'-- | 5 | ···/˘ |
| The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below; | 12 | ············ |
| The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us; | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| The Chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to 'ear us-- | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| To 'ear us-- | 3 | ··· |
| O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so! | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail, | 15 | ·/˘··/˘·····/˘· |
| Though they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've 'ad us back by rail; | 15 | ······/˘······· |
| But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away; | 15 | ··········/˘·˘/ |
| An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day. | 13 | ······/˘····· |
| There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite to drink; | 14 | ·····/˘······· |
| It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march and think; | 14 | ·····/˘··/˘··· |
| An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say, | 16 | ·············/˘· |
| “Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!” | 12 | ···/˘/˘····· |
| 'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things-- | 15 | ···/˘···/˘··/˘· |
| Lieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin' wings, | 14 | ˘/˘/˘/˘˘·/˘/˘· |
| An' Lances actin' Sergeants--eight file to obey-- | 12 | ·/˘/˘/˘···˘/ |
| For we've lots o' quick promotion on ten deaths a day! | 13 | ·····˘/˘····· |
| Our Colonel's white an' twitterly--'e gets no sleep nor food, | 15 | /˘/˘··········· |
| But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good. | 14 | ·········/˘··· |
| 'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay-- | 12 | ·····/˘····· |
| But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day. | 14 | ··/˘·/˘/˘····· |
| Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides, | 15 | /˘/˘··/···/˘··· |
| An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides! | 16 | ·············/˘· |
| With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay! | 15 | ······/˘······· |
| 'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day. | 13 | ··/˘··/······ |
| An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catholicks-- | 15 | ·/˘/˘···/˘/˘··· |
| He knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy conjurin' tricks; | 17 | ···///·/˘··/˘···· |
| An' the two they works together when it comes to play or pray; | 15 | ·····˘/˘······· |
| So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a day. | 13 | ······/˘····· |
| We've got the cholerer in camp--we've got it 'ot an' sweet; | 14 | ·············· |
| It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we must eat. | 14 | ···/˘/˘······· |
| We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay, | 14 | ···········/˘· |
| An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day! | 13 | ··/˘········· |
| Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin', | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| The Bugle's callin'! | 5 | ·/˘·· |
| The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below! | 12 | ············ |
| An' them that do not like it they can lump it, | 11 | ··········· |
| An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it; | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| We've got to die somewhere--some way--some'ow-- | 10 | ····/····· |
| We might as well begin to do it now! | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners--so! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow! | 10 | ·········· |
| Oh, strike--oh, strike your camp an' go! | 8 | ········ |
| (Gawd 'elp us!) | 3 | ··· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.