He’d chat him confidential, ‘n’ he’d pet ‘n’
   paw the moke;
He’d tickle him, ‘n’ flatter him, ‘n’ try him
   with a joke;
‘N’ presently that neddy sobers up, ‘n’ sez
   “Ive course,
Since you puts it that way, cobber, I will be
   a better horse.”

There was one pertickler whaler, known
   aboard ez Marshal Neigh,
Whose monkey tricks with Privit Rowe was
   better than a play. 
He’d done stunts in someone’s circus, ‘n’ he
   loved a merry bout,
Whirlin’ in to bust his boiler, or to kick
   the bottom out.

Rowe he sez:  “Well, there’s an idjit!  Oh,
   yes, let her whiz, you beauty! 
Where’s yer ’orse sense, little feller?  Where’s
   yer bloomin’ sense iv duty? 
Well, you orter serve yer country!” Then
   there’d come a painful hush,
‘N’ that nag would drop his head-piece, ‘n’, so
   ’elp me cat, he’d blush.

We was heaped ashore be Suez, rifle, horse,
   ‘n’ man, ‘n’ tent,
Where the land is sand, the water, ‘n’ the
   gory firmament. 
We had intervals iv longin’, we had sweaty
   spells of work
In the ash-pit iv Gehenner, dumbly waitin’
   fer the Turk.

We goes driftin’ on the desert, nothin’ doin’,
   nothin’ said,
Till we get to think we’re nowhere, ‘n’ arf
   fancy we are dead,
‘N’ the only ’uman interest on the red hori-
   zon’s brim
Is Marshal Neigh’s queer faney fer the lad
   that straddles him.

Plain-livin’s nearly, bored us stiff.  The Major
   calls on Rowe
To devise an entertainment.  What his
   charger doesn’t know
Isn’t in the regulations.  Him ‘n’ Rowe is
   brothers met,
‘N’ that horse’s sense iv humor is the oddest
   fancy yet.

But the Turk arrives one mornin’ on the outer
   edge iv space. 
From back iv things his guns is floppin’ kegs
   about the place,
‘N’ Privit Artie Rowe along with others iv
   the force
Goes pig-rootin’ inter battle, holdin’ converse
   with his horse.

Little Abdul’s quite a fighter, ‘n’ he mixes it
   with skill;
But the Anzacs have him snouted,, ‘n’, oh,
   ma, he’s feelin’ ill. 
They wake the all-fired desert, ‘n’ the land for
   ever dead
Is alive ‘n’ fairly creepin’, and the skies are
   droppin’ lead.

When they’ve got the Ot’man goin’, little
   gaudy hunts begin. 
It fer us to chiv His Trousers. ‘n’ to round
   the stragglers in. 
Cuttin’ closest to the raw, ‘n’ swearin’ lovin’
   all the way,
Is Artie from Molinga on his neddy, Marshal
   Neigh.

We’re pursuin’ sundry camels turkey-trottin’
   anyhow
With the carriage iv an emu ‘n’ the action iv
   a cow,
When a sand dune busts, ‘n’ belches arf a
   million iv the foe. 
They uncork a blanky batt’ry, ‘n’ it’s, Allah,
   let her go!