That takes us to various wars.
10
(Poor beggars! – barbarious wars!)
Then ’ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,
An’ ’ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,
The men an’ the ’orses what makes up the forces
O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.
15
(Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)
Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,
For ’alf o’ Creation she owns:
We ’ave bought ’er the same with the sword an’ the flame,
An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones.
20
(Poor beggars! – it’s blue with our bones!)
Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,
Hands off o’ the goods in ’er shop,
For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says ‘Stop!’
25
(Poor beggars! – we’re sent to say ‘Stop!’)
Then ’ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs –
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’ the file,
An’ open in form with the guns.
30
(Poor beggars! – it’s always they guns!)
We ’ave ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,
It’s safest to leave ’er alone:
For ’er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
35
(Poor beggars! – an’ don’t we get blown!)
Take ’old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,
An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.
40
(Poor beggars! – it’s ’ot over’ead!)
Then ’ere’s to the Sons o’ the Widow,
Wherever, ’owever they roam.
’Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require,
A speedy return to their ’ome.
45
(Poor beggars! – they’ll never see ’ome!)
Gunga Din
You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
5
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
10
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
’E was ‘Din! Din! Din!
You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
15
Hi! Slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao,
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’
The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
20
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
25
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
30
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I’ll marrow you this minute
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’
35
’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
40
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
45
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
50
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’
I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
55
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ ’e plugged me where I bled,
60
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
65
’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’
’E carried me away
70
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.
75
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone
Where it’s always double drills an’ no canteen.
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
80
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
85
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Mandalay
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, an’ I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, an’ the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’
5
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
10
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green,
An’ ’er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot:
15
Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud –
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd –
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where
she stud!
On the road to Mandalay …
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,
20
She’d git ’er little banjo an’ she’d sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!’
With ’er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
25
Where the silence ’ung that ’eavy you was ’arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay …
But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ’buses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
30
‘If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ’eed naught else.’
No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple bells;
On the road to Mandalay …
35
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ’ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ’and –
40
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay …
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;
45
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be –
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
50
Oh, the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
The Young British Soldier
When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East
‘E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks like a beast,
An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent deceased
Ere ’e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.
5
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,
10
You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark 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 o’ the grog-sellers’ huts,
15
For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts –
Ay, drink that ’ud eat the live steel from your butts –
An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad, for the soldier …
When the cholera comes – as it will past a doubt –
20
Keep out of the wet an’ don’t go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An’ it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier …
But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:
25
You must wear your ’elmet for all that is said:
If ’e finds you uncovered ’e’ll knock you down dead,
An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier …
If you’re cast for fatigue by a Sergeant unkind,
30
Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy an’ civil, an’ then you will find
That it’s beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier …
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old –
35
A Troop-Sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told,
For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.
’Nough, ’nough, ’nough for a soldier …
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loth
40
To shoot when you catch ’em – you’ll swing, on my oath! –
Make ’im take ’er an’ keep ’er: that’s Hell for them both,
An’ you’re shut o’ the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier …
When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,
45
Don’t look nor take ’eed at the man that is struck.
Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck
An’ march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier …
When ’arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
50
Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She’s as human as you are – you treat her as sich,
An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier …
When, shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,
55
The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier …
If your Officer’s dead and the Sergeants look white.
60
Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, an’ sit tight,
An’ wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier …
When you’re wounded an’ left on Afghanistan’s plains,
65
An’ the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle an’ blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
70
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
The Conundrum of the Workshops
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, ‘It’s pretty, but is it Art?’
Selected Poems Page 5