Route Marchin'

We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” --“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?“*

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.While it's best foot first, . . .

At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.An' it's best foot first, . . .

Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.*An' it's best foot first, . . .

It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.Till it's best foot first, . . .

So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.For it's best foot first, . . .

We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” --“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”