We haven’t a camelty tune of our own
     To help us trollop along,
     But every neck is a hair trombone
     (Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair trombone!)
     And this our marching-song: 
     Can’t!  Don’t!  Shan’t!  Won’t! 
     Pass it along the line! 
     Somebody’s pack has slid from his back,
     Wish it were only mine! 
     Somebody’s load has tipped off in the road—­
     Cheer for a halt and a row! 
     Urrr!  Yarrh!  Grr!  Arrh! 
     Somebody’s catching it now!

     All the beasts together

     Children of the Camp are we,
     Serving each in his degree;
     Children of the yoke and goad,
     Pack and harness, pad and load. 
     See our line across the plain,
     Like a heel-rope bent again,
     Reaching, writhing, rolling far,
     Sweeping all away to war! 
     While the men that walk beside,
     Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
     Cannot tell why we or they
     March and suffer day by day. 
        Children of the Camp are we,
        Serving each in his degree;
        Children of the yoke and goad,
        Pack and harness, pad and load!