Text: R.Kipling
1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges -
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South -...Read more

Text: R.Kipling
1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges -
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust
of the sear river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East - in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof -
in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West -
in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!

2.
We`re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin` over Africa!
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin` over Africa!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war!

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an`-twenty mile to-day
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war!

Don`t—don`t—don`t—don`t—look at what`s in front of you
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin` `em,
An` there`s no discharge in the war.

Try—try—try—try—to think o` something different -
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin` lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war.

Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers;
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o` you
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again) —
There`s no discharge in the war!

We—can—stick—out—`unger, thirst, an` weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of `em;
Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again,
An` there`s no discharge in the war!

`Tain`t—so—bad—by—day because o` company,
But night—brings—long—strings o` forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again.
There`s no discharge in the war!

I—`ave—marched—six—weeks in `Ell an` certify
It—is—not—fire—devils dark or anything
But boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again,
An` there`s no discharge in the war!

3.
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o mine. O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

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