Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
Bobs
T
Which is Bobs,
Rides the tallest ’orse ’e can—
Our Bobs.
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
’E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both ’is ears—
Can’t yer, Bobs?
Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
’E’s our pukka Kandahader—
Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
’E’s the Dook of Aggy Chel;
’E’s the man that done us well,
An’ we’ll follow ’im to ’ell—
Won’t we, Bobs?
’Ook on Bobs.
If a marker’s lost ’is place,
Dress by Bobs.
For ’e’s eyes all up ’is coat,
An’ a bugle in ’is throat,
An’ you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.
Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink—
Don’t it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho’ ’e’s water on the brain,
If ’e leads us straight again—
Blue-light Bobs.
Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart of lead
Outer Bobs.
’E’s been at it thirty years,
An-amassin’ souveneers
In the way o’ slugs an’ spears—
Ain’t yer Bobs?
Gen’ral Bobs,
You can arst the shop next door—
Can’t they, Bobs?
Oh, ’e’s little but he’s wise;
’E’s terror for ’is size,
An’—’e—does—not—advertize—
Do yer, Bobs?
Outer Bobs,
Which was but ’is fair reward—
Weren’t it, Bobs?
So ’e’ll wear a coronet
Where ’is ’elmet used to set;
But we know you won’t forget—
Will yer, Bobs?
Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs,
Pocket-Wellin’ton ’an arder—
Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
This ain’t no bloomin’ ode,
But you’ve ’elped the soldier’s load,
An’ for benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Bobs!