Jocelyn Henry Clive "Harry" Graham (1874 - 1936) was a Lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, he served in the Second Boer War where he was promoted to Captain. He had already had published two books (Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes, and Little Miss Nobody) before his "Ballads of the Boer War" from which this verse originates from. He went on to become a journalist and boast a long list of published works.
'Ere am I in a Block'ouse,
Like a 'ornet under a glass;
Nothin' to do but sentry-go,
H'up an' down, an' to an' fro,
Watchin' the trains pass.
'Ere am I in a Block'ouse,
Full fed up with the game;
Stuck 'ere now five months an' more,
Never a 'undred yards from the door,
And h'every day the same!
Smoke? I've smoked myself silly;
And read till I couldn't see;
But I ain't no scholard like some, no fear,
An' the sort o' reading they sends us 'ere
Is a bit too stiff for me.
I misses my daily paper,
An' my 'alf-an'-'alf out 'ere;
You can 'ave my tot o' ration rum
An' my share o' the magazines as come,
For a Star an' pint o' beer.
Last week we'd a sack o' papers,
An' what do you think h'I got?
A copy o' Punch (as I can't abide,
'Cos they 'ides the jokes so far inside
That I misses the blooming lot),
A couple o' Daily Graphics,
Which was good, if they wasn't new,
An' a 'opeless sort of magazine
With the longest words as h'ever I seen,
Called the National Review.
Still I was fairly lucky,
For Dick, -- 'e's our 'eavyweight,
'Ad a dozen copies o' Woman's Chat,
With "Seven ways for to trim a 'at"
An' a "Supplement Fashion Plate!"
Joe got a h'Athenaeum
Which 'e never even tried,
A couple o' numbers of Sporting Tips,
A Weekly Times an' a 'Alfpenny Snips,
And a Bradshaw's Monthly Guide.
Bless you! I ain't no grumbler,
I'm only a-'aving my fun;
I'm only grateful enough, Gawd knows, an' yet
I misses my weekly P'lice Gazette
An' my h'extry special Sun.
'Ere am I in a Block'ouse,
One of thousands more;
Same old dooties, rain or shine,
Watchin' the same old bit of line
For the same old Brother Boer.
'Ere I sweats in the daytime,
'Ere I freezes at night;
Same old game, week in week out,
Same old Kopjes round about,
An' the same wire fence in sight.
H'Always the same old business,
With the same old false alarms;
Some poor h'ignorant volunteer
Fires his gun in a Block'ouse near
An' we 'as to "stand to arms!"
Natives out in the sangers
Blazing away all night;
They knows well what they 'ave in store
If they're caught alive by the friendly Boer
An' they means for to make a fight.
Then there's the blooming "Brethren,"
An' a lively noise they make;
'Ide in a donga out o' sight
Snipin' the sentries 'alf the night,
An' keeping us all awake.
Three A.M. an' the veldt's astir,
An' the cocks begin to crow,
An' I 'arks to the "'onk" o' the Native crane
Till it's time for the morning water train
Or some more o' the sentry go.
H'I'm one o' the "Royal Fed-ups,"
More than earnin' my pay;
This 'ere is a job for the C.I.V.*
H'or the bullionaires o' the P.A.G.*
As is getting five bob a day.
*City of London Imperial Volunteers.
*Prince Alfred's Guard.
Sometimes a local paper
Drops as a train rolls by,
An' I reads of a "Capture of Yeomanry"
Or "More surrenders of D.M.T."*
An' "Give me a 'orse!" sez I.
*District Mounted Troops.
We're h'only regular soldiers
On a blooming bob a day,
But as good as them h'amatoor M.I.*
As well - an' better'n they!
*Mounted Infantry.
For what you h'asks at present
Is more than my shillings worth,
An' it ain't my bloomin' idea at all
O' what Mister Kipling likes to call
The "Gawdliest life h'on earth!"
Give me a 'ard days trekking!
Give me a bit of a scrap!
H'Open veldt an' a bivouac fire
Is 'eaven compared to this cage o' wire,
Where I feels like a rat in a trap.
Lor! but the time goes tejus,
'Owever so 'ard you try
To read the news as is six months old,
To drink biled water as won't get old,
An' wave as the train pass by.
Somebody 'as to do it!
'Tisn't for me to whine;
But it does me good for to 'ave a "grouse"
As I sits in this bloomin' Bee'ive'ouse
A-guarding the Western Line.
Some day, as I don't doubt it,
The end o' the show will come;
Meanwhile we're doin' the best we can,
An' 'ere (thanks be!) comes the ration man,
"Roll up for your tot of rum!"
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