Marching to Candahar

Marching, forced marching,

At stretch of speed so strong the need,

Marching, forced marching,

And Bobs himself to lead.

Horse, foot and gun at call,

Like wool upon a ball,

'Tis in and out and round about

He winds and binds us all.

Marching, forced marching,

For weeks and weeks, o'er moors and peaks;

Marching and outmarching

Ten thousand grand old Greeks.

Till Xenophon's harangues

Of stades and parasangs,

By all the powers this march of ours

To Banagher it bangs.

Marching and marching,

So swift and far by sun and star!

On marching and marching

Away for Candahar.

They say she's sore beset,

But through the Afghan net

We boys will break, and no mistake,

And save the city yet.