Volume 104 — THE THIN BROWN LINE.
Reading edition
["Decidedly the most gratifying feature in the accounts of these engagements which have reached us, is the proof which they contain of the remarkable progress in all soldierly qualities made by the fellaheen forces, under the guidance and instruction of their British Officers."—The Times.]
Tommy Atkins, loquitur:—
"We've fought with many men acrost the seas, And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not." (So Mister Kipling says. His 'ealth, boys, please! 'E doesn't give us Tommies Tommy-rot.) We didn't think you over-full of pluck, When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses; But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck! Wich you're proving an addition to our forces. So 'ere's to you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran; You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man; You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz, And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz! You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit, From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-dive; Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit, And I almost wonder you are left alive. But we've got you out of a good deal of that, Sir Evelyn and the rest of us. You foller; And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller. Then 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid! When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid, You'll just make a Tommy Atkins of a quiet Coptic sort; And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport. Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say you? We don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes; But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we do, We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes; With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush, With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear; But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush? That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year. So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more, Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar, We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair, We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square. You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet, But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line." May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet! All good fighters may shake fists, you know—'ere's mine! You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab! I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab, Tommy Atkins drinks your 'ealth with three times three! So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan, And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man: An' 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!