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Poem	There's a soldier that's been doing of his share In the fighting up and down and round about. He's continually marching here and there, And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. The Boer, you see, he generally runs; But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock, And we can't make no impression with the guns, Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!" Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock. He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. For he's hairy and he's hard, And his feet are by the yard, And his face is like the face what's on a clock. But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- "Send for Jock!" The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance; Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance By holding of their helmets on their head. And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, With their music that'd terrify an ox! When the bullets kick the sand You can hear the sharp command -- "Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!" And the charge is like a hood When they warmed the Highland blood Of the Jocks!
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