lonel Maxwell's 2nd Khedivial
Brigades started to march from Berber to Dakhala about that time, the
end of July. Many of the British soldiers, so as not to sleep upon the
ground, had built for themselves benches of mud or sun-dried bricks,
whereon they spread their blankets. The plan secured some immunity
from such crawling things as scorpions and snakes. Sun-baked mud in
the Soudan is a hard and decently clean material for bench or bed. The
Theatres Royal, Darmali and Es Selim, were in full swing, though it
was very 'dog-days' weather. Officers liberally patronised the men's
entertainments and occasionally held jollifications of their own.
There were a good many who exercised the cheerful spirit of Mark
Tapley under the trials of the Soudan. Lively and original skits and
verses were given at these symposiums. Here are a few verses of a
topical song on the refractory blacks and fellaheen fallen under the
condemnation of either the civil or military law and forced to hard
labour. It was written and frequently sung by a clever young engineer
officer:--

We're convicts at work in the Noozle,
We carry great loads on our backs,
And often our warders bamboozle,
And sleep 'neath mountains of sacks.

Chorus: Ri-tooral il looral, &c.

(The Noozle is the commissariat depot.)

We convicts start work at day dawning,
Boilers we mount about noon,
Sleepers we load in the morning,
And rails by the light of the moon.

Our warders are blacks, who cry Masha! (march),
And strike us if we don't obey,
Or else he's a Hamla Ombashi,
Who allows us to fuddle all day.

Hamla Ombashi is a corporal of the transport service, and "fuddle" is
to sit down. It was the chorus with spoken words interlarded that
caught on astonishingly, and showed that the men's lungs were in
magnificent condition. Another howler, but by another author, was
"Roll on to Khartoum." Here is a specimen verse and the chorus:--

Come, forward march, and do your duty,
Though poor your grub, no rum, bad 'bacca,
Step out, for fighting and no booty,
To trace a free red line thro' Africa.

No barney, boys, give over mousing,
True Britons are ye from hill and fen,
Now rally lads, and drop all grousing,
And pull together like soldier-men.

Chorus.

Then roll on, boys, roll on to Khartoum,
March y