> A version of it should exist in the Lunar Army but I'm having
> difficulty translating it.
>
It jogged a memory for me, so here's my version. Sort of inspired by some of Wesley's campaign write-ups, though more polite. :)
Lunar experts may wish to substitute more accurate rank titles.
THE YOUNG LUNAR SQUADDIE (as suggested by Peter Metcalfe - with apologies to Rudyard Kipling)
When the half-made squaddie, she goes to the East Where she acts like a lune and she drinks like a beast, And she wonders because she is frequent deceased If she's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Now all of you squaddies what's drafted to-day, You shut up your whingein' and hark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .
First mind you steer clear of those Uz grogging huts, For they'll sell you Powzie that rots out your guts – A drink that would eat the raw bronze from your butts – Its no good for the brave Lunar soldier.
Good, good, good for the soldier . . .
Now the worst o' your foes is the folk of the hills: Theys scream from the heights so's to give you the chills: Then attack you with long spears and other bronze thrills, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Die, die, die like soldier . . .
Now, if you must marry, be careful, take care – For the men in the camps are of wind and of air, And when you most need `em they'll never be there!, And love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .
And if hubbie go off with yerr squadmate, be loath To cut when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, by my oath! -- Make her take him and keep him: that's hell! for them both, And you're shut of the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .
When first in the fray an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take heed at yer squadmate who's struck, Be thankful you're living, and trust to your luck And keep your shield high like a soldier.
High, high, high like a soldier . . .
When half of your squadies fall down in the ditch, Don't call your old deco a cross-eyed chill bitch; She's loyal as you are -- you treat her as sich, An' she'll save you, the brave Lunar soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .
Your priestess's dead and the decos look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take up close order, lock shields, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you're wounded and left in the hills of Sartar, And the tribesmen come out to spread entrails afar, Just lift up yer dagger and slice yer neck hard And praise the Goddess like a soldier.
Praise, praise, praise like a soldier, Praise, praise, praise like a soldier, Praise, praise, praise like a soldier,
Raise the tribes for Sartar.
John
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