There's tumult in the Khyber, There's feud at Ali Kheyl; For the Maliks of the Khyber Are at it tooth and nail— With the stolen British carbine And the long Kohat jezail. And I look across the ramparts To the northward and the snow To the far Cherat cantonments; But alas! I cannot go From the dusty, dreary ramparts Where the cannons grin arow! There's fighting in the Khyber, But it isn't meant for me, Who am sent upon 'Fort-duty' By this pestilent Ravi, With just one other subaltern, And not a soul to see. Oh! it's everlasting gun-drill And eight-o'clock parades, It's cleaning-up of mortars (Likewise of carronades), While the passes ring with rifles And the noise of Afghan raids. And I look across the ramparts To the river broad and grey, And I think of merry England Where the festive Horse Guards play. Oh! take the senior grades for this And spare the young R.A.!