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M. I.
165
Our Sergeant-Major's a subaltern, our Captain's a Fusilier—
Our Adjutant's "late of Somebody's 'Orse," an' a Melbourne auctioneer;
But you couldn't spot us at 'arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry.
They used to talk about Lancers once,
Hussars, Dragoons, an' Lancers once,
'Elmets, pistols, an' carbines once,
But now we are M. I.
That is what we are known as—we are the orphans they blame
For beggin' the loan of an 'ead-stall an' makin' a mount to the same:
'Can't even look at an 'orselines but some one goes bellerin' "Hi!
"'Ere comes a burglin' Ikona!" Footsack you —— M. I.!
We're trekkin' our twenty miles a day an' bein' loved by the Dutch,
