An' we scout with a senior man in charge where the 'oly white flags fly.

⁠We used to think they were friendly once,
⁠Didn't take any precautions once
⁠(Once, my ducky, an' only once!)
⁠But now we are M. I.

That is what we are known as—we are the beggars that got
Three days "to learn equitation," an' six months o' bloomin' well trot!
Cow-guns, an' cattle, an' convoys—an' Mister De Wet on the fly—
We are the rollin' Ikonas! We are the —— M. I.!

The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin' vain V. C.'s
(The same as our talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes^[1]),

But our words o' command are "Scatter" an' "Close" an' "Let your wounded lie."