Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3822/India: 1784-1914
The job was for us, grin and bear;
We'd lit on India's dust an' drought;
We knew as we were planted there,
But scarcely how it came about;
And so, in rough and tumble style,
And nothing much to make a shout,
We set our backs to graft a while,
And meant to stay and stick it out.
Ten hundred risky, frisky Kings,
And on the whole a decent lot;
And several hundred million things
That trusted us with all they'd got;
And so we blundered at it straight,
And found the times was pretty hot;
And so they smiled and called it Fate,
And Fate it was, as like as not.
Our law was one for great and small—
We heard 'em honest, claim for claim;
We smooth'd their squabbles for 'em all,
And let 'em pray by any name;
And so we left enough alone,
But learnt 'em plenty all the same;
We show'd 'em what they should be shown,
And tried to play the decent game.
For all our work we've not got much?
P'r'aps not: but now there's come a scrap
That's got us good with lies and such,
And gave 'em just the chance to snap;
And fools had thought they likely would
(That's German-made and rattle-trap);
They'd shout—the Kaiser said they should—
And, happen, wipe us off the map.
From snow to sand that shout has burst,
And German lies are well belied;
And flood calls field for who'll be first—
They 're proud to share the Empire-pride.
It's them for Britain at the test;
We knew they'd never stand aside;
For when we tried and did our best
The beggars must have known we tried.