Ah, how I hate the grit an’ dust-
Wha’ come in desert lands.
The thirst, the burn, the smarting eyes…
The dry and cracking ‘ands.
The bloody wogs wi’ sword and gun…
The outpost long forgot…
An’ legionaires the Frenchmen sent,
An’ left out ‘ere to rot.
Scurvy, aye, no fruit about-
The water scarce an’ bad…
When yer pinned down, for near a week,
No water to be ‘ad…
‘Twill make the foulest smellin’ scum
Like nectar to the taste.
An’ make men fight like ravin’ wolves
An’ not one drop to waste.
Aye, fought I did, a legionaire…
Stranger’s we were called,
For money, for adventure, or…
For nothing we did fall.
I’ve breathed the dry North Afric air…
Eat bread, draunk water stale…
For wha’? I dinna really ken,
So goes a Traveler’s Tale.