Ah me, the Indian summer’s come,

Bas hogaya the winter fun,

The polo, and the hounds, and the Race,

And for months you won’t desire

The comforts of a fire,

But punkah coolies will now take its place.

When reveille sounds at five,

You feel but half alive,

As you struggle to the range, or to the school,

And where’er you go you must

Choke with that confounded dust,

And are longing for some rain to make it cool.

Then to breakfast you must go

Though it’s really only show,

As food sticks somehow half way down your throat,

And you have to then arrange

To hurry up, and change

Having sweated through a dusty khaki coat.

And in India ‘ s sultry clime

Troop horses have a time

To be compared to what is suffered down below,

For their water it is warm,

And some Squadrons stint their corn,

If they’re thin, small wonder that it’s so.

But when all is said and done,

Although India has a sun,

Which is most unpleasant, both for horse and man,

Yet the time we spend out here,

Where the hot sun seems so near,

We must try, and make as cheery as we can.