If you lose your way in London You can always ask a policeman, You can always hail a taxi, But there were no taxis plying From Baraka to Sidemli, No policeman’s measured footfall ’Twixt Les Batignolles and Clichy. Round about these pleasant places Nightly Tiadatha staggered, Visiting his lonely outposts, Taking out a digging party, Leading out patrols to Dautli. Up and down the hills he stumbled, Crossing little winding _dere_, Falling into rocky gullies, Falling into blackberry bushes, Into unexpected shell holes, Took wrong turnings in the darkness (Hardly ever took the right one), Lost his bearings far more often Than a woman loses hankies. On patrol the Pitons knew him, Bekerli and Green Hill knew him, And the minaret that rises From the ruins of Sidemli; Marching homewards in the daylight Often he would stop to rest there, Stop to gather fruit for dinner From the plum trees in the village; And one day he drove some Bulgars From a little unnamed _piton_, Drove them off in wild confusion, Brought their rifles back in triumph, Brought a cap and water-bottle, Brought some cheese they’d left behind them. And the General named the _piton_, Called it after Tiadatha, Called it Tiadatha’s Piton. Then one night the Royal Dudshires Moved a little farther forward, Pinched some hills and sat upon them; Hurriedly they dug them trenches, Put up rolls of concertina; And one afternoon in August (In the midst of crumps and shrapnel) Put to flight three thousand Bulgars Who had sallied forth to meet them. Several weeks my Tiadatha Lived on sundry little hill-tops, Changing over every fortnight, Sleeping in a sketchy bivvy, Sleeping with his boots and clothes on. Just as he was getting settled, Had his trenches nearly finished, Promptly the battalion shifted, Marched for one night to the eastward, Then passed by the boundary pillar, Passed the Serbian boundary pillar On the road that leads to Doiran, Once again relieved their Allies, In the line that looked o’er Doiran, In the line where Grand Couronné Frowned upon their every movement As the mighty 535 did: Loomed above them like the Great Wheel At the Earl’s Court Exhibition.