The Cholera Camp

The Cholera Camp, by Bellowhead verse 1, We’ve the cholera in camp, And it’s worse than forty fights, And we’re dying in the wilderness, The same as Israelites, It’s before us and behind us, And we cannot get away, And the doctor’s just reported, That we’ve ten more today. Chorus, Oh strike your camp and go, The bugle’s calling, The rains a-falling The dead are bushed and stoned To keep them safe below, And bands are doing all they can to cheer us The chaplain’s gone and prayed to god to hear us, To hear us Oh lord for it’s the killing of us all verse 2 Since August when it started, It’s been sticking to our tail, For they’ve had us out by marches, And they’ve had us back by rail But it runs as fast as troop trains, And we cannot get away, And the sick list to the Colonel makes ten more today, verse 3 And there ain’t no fun in women, And there ain’t no bite to drink, It’s much too wet for shooting, We can only march and think. And at evening, down the nullahs, We can hear the jackals say, Get up you rotten beggars you’ve got ten more today, (Chorus) verse 4 And it would make a monkey cough See our way of doing things, Lieutenants taking companies, And captains taking wings, And lances acting sergeants, They file to obey, Yes there’s lots of big promotion on ten deaths a day Verse 5 And our colonel’s white and twittery, And he gets no sleep or food, He just mucks about in hospital, Where nothing does no good, And he sends us heaps of comfort, All bought from his pay, But there ain’t much comfort handy on ten deaths a day (Chorus) Verse 6 And our chaplain he’s got a banjo, And a skinny mule he rides, And the stuff he says and sings, Oh lord it makes us split our sides, With his black coat-tails a-bobbing, To tara-ra-boom-de-ay, Oh he’s a proper sort of Padre for ten deaths a day, Verse 7 We’ve the cholera in camp, We’ve got it hot and sweet, And it ain’t no Christmas dinner, But it’s served and we must eat, And we’ve gone beyond the funking, C’us’ we’ve found it doesn’t pay, And we’re rocking round the district on ten deaths a day Chorus (Version 2) Oh strike your camp and go, The bugle’s calling, The rains a-falling The dead are bushed and stoned To keep them safe below, And them that do not like it they can lump it, And them that cannot stand it they can jump it, For we’ve got to die somewhere, some way some how, So we might as well begin to do it now Verse 8 So number one, let down the tent poles slow, Knock out the pegs and hold the corners oh, Furl up the flies, fold up the ropes and stow, Oh strike, Oh strike your camp and go.