(Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the Supply Depot at Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond Chocolate Hill, September, 1915.)
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”[1]
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
They shiver and huddle—they feel the night chills;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
With creaking and jingle of harness and pack;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black,
They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
By the blessing of Allah he’s more than one wife;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
He’s forbidden the wine which encourages strife,
But you don’t like the look of his dangerous knife;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare;
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
A turban he wears with magnificent air,
But he chucks down his pack when it’s time for his prayer;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
When his moment arrives he’ll be dropped in a hole;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
‘Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control;
But the dear little houris will comfort his soul;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
The Indian whallahs go up to the hills;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills;
But those who come down carry something that chills;—
“Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!”
FOOTNOTE:
[1]”Jhill-o!”—Hindustani for “Gee-up”; used by the drivers of the Indian Pack-mule Corps.