There's a soldier that's been doing of his share <br />In the fighting up and down and round about. <br />He's continually marching here and there, <br />And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. <br />The Boer, you see, he generally runs; <br />But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock, <br />And we can't make no impression with the guns, <br />Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!" <br />Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock. <br />He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. <br />For he's hairy and he's hard, <br />And his feet are by the yard, <br />And his face is like the face what's on a clock. <br />But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- <br />"Send for Jock!" <br /> <br />The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance; <br />Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. <br />The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance <br />By holding of their helmets on their head. <br />And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench <br />And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, <br />These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- <br />They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! <br /> <br />Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, <br />With their music that'd terrify an ox! <br />When the bullets kick the sand <br />You can hear the sharp command -- <br />"Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!" <br />And the charge is like a hood <br />When they warmed the Highland blood <br />Of the Jocks!<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jock/
