With the Serbs in Macedonia

50 WITH THE SERBS IN MACEDONIA
The 'ills was steep, the ruts was deep — the Staff cars all
'ad fits—
But you got up 'em some'ow, though you shook yourself
to bits !
You've ploughed your way across the sands (and sand's
the worst by far),
Dry, shifting sand's a death-trap for a pukka moty car—
There ain't no grip, the back wheels slip, the front ones
will not steer ;
But you get through, though why you do, I ain't exactly
clear !
You've nosed your way 'crost marshy tracks where cars
ain't never bin,
Your wheels 'ave stuck in slimy muck, your
right in.
axle's sunk
But, when we dig you out again, you start up with a roar,
An* off you go, nor care a blow, till in you flops once more !
Now fair is fair's my motto, so it's up to me to say,
You've proved yourself dam' useful in your own pertickler
way.
You're made in twenty minutes, and you look it too, old
son—
But there and back, you've done your whack against the
'Orrid'Un!