We work under escort in trousers and shirt,
An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt,
We blast out the rock an' we shovel the mud,
We make 'em good roads an'—they roll down the khud.
We make 'em their bridges, their wells, an' their huts,
An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts,
An' it's blamed on, etc.
An' when we return, an' from war we would cease,
They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace,
Which are kept for, etc.
We build 'em nice barracks—they swear they are bad,
That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad,
They haven't no manners nor gratitude too,
For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do,
But mock at, etc.