As they skirted round an outpost Tiadatha’s heart grew fearful Of inevitable star-shells, Véry lights that seemed as certain As a howl is from a baby When he wakes up in the night-time: Felt his heart go pitter-patter, Knowing well how all depended On their getting past unnoticed; But because a gale was blowing, Or because the group was dreaming Of its fairies in Sofia, Not a sound came from the outpost, Not a rifle shot nor star-shell While the vanguard of the Dudshires Led the party through the darkness As a tug escorts a liner. Drawing near their dim objective In the greyness of the morning, They deployed and at the signal, At the order of their Colonel, Charged upon the Bulgar stronghold As the pearly dawn was breaking. ’Twould have made your heart beat faster, ’Twould have set your blood a-tingle, Had you seen the Royal Dudshires, Seen that line of gallant Dudshires, Shake itself and charge like soldiers, Go bald-headed for the Bulgars. Had you heard the Dudshires yelling Loud as rooters at a ball game When they charged across the open, In their hearts that funny feeling, Only brought about by three things— Love or rum or lust of battle. And by this time Johnny Bulgar Was awake and taking notice, Sitting up and taking notice, Potting at the charging Dudshires As they came across the open. From behind the trees they potted, Potted from behind the bushes, Made the puddles look like fountains In the greyness of the morning. But the Dudshires, nothing daunted, Kept their line and never wavered, At their head my Tiadatha. Closer still they came and closer Till the Bulgars saw their bayonets Gleaming silver in the morning, Found that they could wait no longer, Through the wood they turned and legged it, On their heels the panting Dudshires Led by breathless Tiadatha. You’d have cheered your very soul out Had you spotted Tiadatha Rounding up a band of prisoners, Setting off with Woggs his batman On a separate expedition After one more pet of Ferdie’s Who was hurriedly departing. Hard and fast he chased that Bulgar, Vainly loosing off his rifle (Finding that it wasn’t loaded), Vainly trying to remember What “Surrender” was in Bulgar. Wind was weak though spirit willing And he never caught his quarry, For in spite of his equipment, Fancy boots and overcoating, Johnny legged it like a good ’un, Faster than a fighting woodcock, Swifter than a homing pigeon, Leaving Woggs and Tiadatha Cursing loudly in the distance, With the slender consolation That they’d bagged a Bulgar rifle As memento of the picnic.