The Camp at Knockaloe
The Isle of Man’s a lovely place,
That’s what people say,
And folks crowd there in the summertime,
To spend a holiday.
But we’ve a round of duties,
To keep us on the go.
We have to guard the Aliens,
Interned at Knockaloe.
We do our picquets and our guards,
Take prisoners to work,
To Ballamoar, Ballaquayle ,
Ballaugh, and to Quirk’s,
Each day to work they go;
There’s a balley lot of duty boys,
On tap at Knockaloe.
We’ve tally counts, and coal fatigues,
And duties at the gate,
So woe betide the bounders, who
May chance to come in late.
And if a fellow’s been in Peel,
And done himself too well,
It’s likely he may pass the night
Inside the guard room cell.
We get good rations in our camp,
Hearty chaps are we,
There’s little left upon the plates
By men of the R.D.C.
But then we have a dry canteen
To soothe the hungry ones
There, tea and cocoa can be had,
And microscopic buns.
There is a hut outside our camp,
It’s doors are open free,
There always is a welcome for
Men of the R.D.C
They show fresh pictures every week,
Admission. Just two D.,
A special boon to all of us
Is the good old Y.M.C
“Veteran”, R.D.C., 1918
Poem courtesy of Susan Robertson