Note 273 — Chapter XIII · THE SECOND BATTALION. 1883-1902. THE BLACK MOUNTAIN EXPEDITION: THE TIRAH CAMPAIGN.
Reading edition
While the regiment was at the front Mr Rudyard Kipling in a ballad made the immortal Mulvaney predict the result of sending an Irish corps on a campaign where field canteens were not allowed. Thanks to the kind permission of Mr Kipling the ballad is reproduced.
“THE WAY AV UT!”
“The Black Mountain Expedition is apparently to be a tetotal affair.”—Vide ‘Civil and Military Gazette,’ October 5, 1888.
“A charge of Ghazis was met by the Royal Irish, who accounted for the whole of them.... The Royal Irish then carried the position.”—‘Pioneer.’
“I met with ould Mulvaney and he tuk me by the hand, Sez he: ‘Fwhat kubber’ from the front, and will the Paythans stand?” “O Terence, dear, in all Clonmel such things were never seen, They’ve sent a rigimint to war widout a fiel’ canteen! “’Tis not a Highland rigimint, for they wud niver care, Their Corp’rils carry hymn-books an’ they open fire wid prayer— ’Tis not an English rigimint that burns a blue light flame, ’Tis the Eighteenth Royal Irish, man! as thirsty as they’re game! “An’ Terence bit upon his poipe, an’ shpat behin’ the door— ‘’Tis Bobs,’ sez he, ‘that knows the thrick av making bloody war. Ye say they go widout their dhrink?” “and that’s the trut,”’ sez I! “Thin Heaven help the Muddy Khels they call an Akazai! “I lay wid them in Dublin wanst, an’ we was Oirish tu, We passed the time av day, an’ thin the belts wint ‘whirraru,’ I misremember fwhat occurred, but, followin’ the shtorm, A ‘Freeman’s Journal’ Supplemint was all my uniform! “They’re rocks upon parade, but oh! in barricks they are hard— They’re ragin,’ tearin’ divils whin there’s ructions on the kyard— An’ onless they’ve changed their bullswools for a baby’s sock, I think They’d rake all Hell for grandeur—an’ I know they wud for dhrink! “An’ Bobs has sent them out to war widout a dhrop or dhrain? ’Tis he will put the ‘jildy’ in this dissolute campaign. They’d fight for frolic half the year, but now their liquor’s cut, The wurrd ’l go: ‘Don’t waste your time! the bay’net and the butt!’ “Six hundher’ stiflin’ throats in front—tu hundher’ lef’ behind To suk the pickins av the cask whiniver they’ve a mind! I would not be the Paythan man forninst the ‘Sungar’ wall Whin those six hundher gintlemen projuce the long bradawl! “They will be dhry—tremenjus dhry—an’ not a dhram to toss— Divils of Ballydaval, Holy Saints av Holy Cross! An’ Holy Cross they all will be from Carrick to Clogheen, Thrapesin’ after naygur-log widout a fiel’ canteen. “Will they be long among the hills? my troth, they will not so— They’re cramming down their fightin’ now to have ut done, an’ go— For Bobs, the Timp’rance Shtrategist, has whipped them on the nail. ’Tis cruel on the Oirish, but—’tis murther on the Kheyl!”