Bobs
(Field-Marshal Lord Roberts
of Kandahar: died in France 1914)
THERE’s a little red—faced man,
Which is Bobs,
Rides the tallest ‘orse ’e can—
Our Bobs.
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
‘E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both ’is ears—
Can’t yer, Bobs?
Then 'ere’s to Bobs Bahadur —
little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
E’s our pukka Kandahader—
Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
E’s the Dook of Aggy Chel;
E’s the man that done us well,
An’ we’ll follow ‘im to ’ell
Won’t we, Bobs?
If a limber’s slipped a trace,
'Ook on Bobs.
If a marker’s lost ‘is place,
Dress by Bobs.
For ’e’s eyes all up 'is coat,
An’ a bugle in 'is throat,
An’ you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.
E’s a little down on drink,
Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink
Don’t it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho’ ‘e’s water on the brain,
If ‘e leads us straight again—
Blue—light Bobs.
If you stood ’im on ‘is head,
Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart of lead
Outer Bobs.
’E’s been at it thirty years
An—amassin’ souveneers
In the way o’ slugs an’ spears—
Ain’t yer, Bobs?
What 'e does not know o’ war,
Gen’ral Bobs,
You can arst the shop next door—
Can’t they, Bobs?
Oh, 'e’s little but he’s wise,
'E’s terror for ‘is size,
An—’e—does—not—advertise—
Do yer, Bobs?
Now they’ve made a bloomin’ Lord
Outer Bobs,
Which was but 'is fair reward—
Weren’t it, Bobs?
So 'e’ll wear a coronet
Where ‘is ’elmet used to set;
But we know you won’t forget—
Will yer, Bobs?
Then 'ere’s to Bobs Bahadur—
little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs,
Pocket—Wellin’ton 'an arder
Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
This ain’t no bloomin’ ode,
But you’ve 'elped the soldier’s load,
An’ for benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Bobs!
