By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”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,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: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,She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheekWe useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.Elephints a-pilin' teakIn the sludgy, squdgy creek,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 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:“If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.”No! you won't 'eed nothin' elseBut them spicy garlic smells,An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;On the road to Mandalay...I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,An' the blasted Henglish 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—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;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!On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin'-fishes play,An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
(Our Army in the East)Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:'Ere's September come again—the six-year men are free.O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come awayTo where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome to-day.We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,Our ship is at the shore,An' you must pack your 'aversack,For we won't come back no more.Ho, don't you grieve for me,My lovely Mary-Ann,For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bitAs a time-expired man.The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome to-day.They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;They'll kill us of pneumonia—for that's their little way—But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome to-day!Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay—What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there to-day.Troopin', troopin', give another cheer—'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle—Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day.We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,Our ship is at the shore,An' you must pack your 'aversack,For we won't come back no more.Ho, don't you grieve for me,My lovely Mary-Ann,For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bitAs a time-expired man.
“Where have you been this while away,Johnnie, Johnnie?”'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!They called us out of the barrack-yardTo Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,And you can't refuse when you get the card,And the Widow gives the party.(Bugle: Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!)“What did you get to eat and drink,Johnnie, Johnnie?”Standing water as thick as ink,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!A bit o' beef that were three year stored,A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,When the Widow give the party.“What did you do for knives and forks,Johnnie, Johnnie?”We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!And some was sliced and some was halved,And some was crimped and some was carved,And some was gutted and some was starved,When the Widow give the party.“What ha' you done with half your mess,Johnnie, Johnnie?”They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!They ate their whack and they drank their fill,And I think the rations has made them ill,For half my comp'ny's lying stillWhere the Widow give the party.“How did you get away—away,Johnnie, Johnnie?”On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!I comed away like a bleedin' toff,For I got four niggers to carry me off,As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,When the Widow give the party.“What was the end of all the show,Johnnie, Johnnie?”Ask my Colonel, for I don't know,Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!We broke a King and we built a road—A court-house stands where the reg'ment goed.And the river's clean where the raw blood flowedWhen the Widow give the party.(Bugle: Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!)
Kabul town's by Kabul river—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—There I lef' my mate for ever,Wet an' drippin' by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin''Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town's a blasted place—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is faceWet an' drippin' by the ford!Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town is sun and dust—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—I'd ha' sooner drownded fust'Stead of 'im beside the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin','Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town was ours to take—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—I'd ha' left it for 'is sake—'Im that left me by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?Kabul town'll go to hell—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Fore I see him 'live an' well—'Im the best beside the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Turn your 'orse from Kabul town—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,Down an' drownded by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin''Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,And faith he went the pace and went it blind,And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,Baa! Baa! Baa!We're little black sheep who've gone astray,Baa—aa—aa!Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,Damned from here to Eternity,God ha' mercy on such as we,Baa! Yah! Bah!Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hopsAnd thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be “Rider” to your troop,And branded with a blasted worsted spur,When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanlyWho blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir”.If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,And all we know most distant and most dear,Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern guttersAnd the horror of our fall is written plain,Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.God help us, for we knew the worst too young!Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds usAnd we die, and none can tell Them where we died.We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,Baa! Baa! Baa!We're little black sheep who've gone astray,Baa—aa—aa!Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,Damned from here to Eternity,God ha' mercy on such as we,Baa! Yah! Bah!
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.While it's best foot first,...At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.An' it's best foot first,...Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.An' it's best foot first,...It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.Till it's best foot first,...So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.For it's best foot first,...We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”
My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the RevellyFrom Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,Hong-Kong and Peshawur,Lucknow and Etawah,And fifty-five more all endin' in “pore”.Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness,Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way,But I'm old and I'm nervis,I'm cast from the Service,And all I deserve is a shillin' a day.(Chorus) Shillin' a day,Bloomin' good pay—Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days IWent slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,When we rode Hell-for-leatherBoth squadrons together,That didn't care whether we lived or we died.But it's no use despairin', my wife must go charin'An' me commissairin' the pay-bills to better,So if me you be'oldIn the wet and the cold,By the Grand Metropold, won't you give me a letter?(Full chorus) Give 'im a letter—'Can't do no better,Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an'—runs with a letter!Think what 'e's been,Think what 'e's seen,Think of his pension an'——Gawd save the Queen.
There's a little red-faced man,Which is Bobs,Rides the tallest 'orse 'e can-Our Bobs,If it bucks or kicks or rears,'E can sit for twenty yearsWith a smile round both 'is ears-Can't yer, Bobs?Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur-Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!'E's our pukka Kandahader-Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!'E's the Dook of Aggy Chel;'E's the man that done us well,An' we'll follow 'im to 'ell-Won't we Bobs?If a limber's slipped a trace,'Ook on Bobs.If a marker's lost 'is place,Dress by Bobs.For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat,An' a bugle in 'is throat,An' you will not play the goatUnder Bobs.'E's a little down on drink,Chaplain Bobs;But it keeps us outer Clink-Don't it Bobs?So we will not complainTho' 'e's water on the brain,If 'e leads us straight again-Blue-light Bobs.If you stood 'im on 'is headFather Bobs,You could spill a quart o' leadOuter Bobs.'E's been at it thirty years,An' amassin' souveneersIn the way o' slugs an' spears-Ain't yer, Bobs?What 'e does not Know o' war,Gen'ral Bobs,You can arst the shop next door-Can't they, Bobs?Oh, 'e's little, but he's wise;'E's a terror for 'is size,An'-'e-does-not-advertise-Do yer, Bobs?Now they've made a bloomin' LordOuter Bobs,Which was but 'is fair reward-Weren't it Bobs?So 'e'll wear a coronetWhere 'is 'elmet used to set;But we know you won't forget-Will yer, Bobs?Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur—Little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!Pocket-Wellin'ton an' arder—Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!This ain't no bloomin' ode,But you've 'elped the soldier's load,An' for benefits bestowed,Bless yer, Bobs!
I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,A-layin' on to the sergeant I don't know a gun from a bat;My shirt's doin' duty for jacket, my sock's stickin' out o' my boots,An' I'm learnin' the damned old goose-step along o' the new recruits!Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again.Don't look so 'ard, for I 'aven't no card,I'm back to the Army again!I done my six years' service. 'Er Majesty sez: “Good-day—You'll please to come when you're rung for, an' 'ere's your 'ole back-pay;An' fourpence a day for baccy—an' bloomin' gen'rous, too;An' now you can make your fortune—the same as your orf'cers do.”Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again;'Ow did I learn to do right-about turn?I'm back to the Army again!A man o' four-an'-twenty that 'asn't learned of a trade—Beside “Reserve” agin' him—'e'd better be never made.I tried my luck for a quarter, an' that was enough for me,An' I thought of 'Er Majesty's barricks, an' I thought I'd go an' see.Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again;'Tisn't my fault if I dress when I 'alt—I'm back to the Army again!The sergeant arst no questions, but 'e winked the other eye,'E sez to me, “'Shun!” an' I shunted, the same as in days gone by;For 'e saw the set o' my shoulders, an' I couldn't 'elp 'oldin' straightWhen me an' the other rookies come under the barrick-gate.Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again;'Oo would ha' thought I could carry an' port?I'm back to the Army again!I took my bath, an' I wallered—for, Gawd, I needed it so!I smelt the smell o' the barricks, I 'eard the bugles go.I 'eard the feet on the gravel—the feet o' the men what drill—An' I sez to my flutterin' 'eart-strings, I sez to 'em, “Peace, be still!”Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again;'Oo said I knew when the Jumner was due?I'm back to the Army again!I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to 'im, “None o' your lip!You tight 'em over the shoulders, an' loose 'em over the 'ip,For the set o' the tunic's 'orrid.” An' 'e sez to me, “Strike me dead,But I thought you was used to the business!” an' so 'e done what I said.Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again.Rather too free with my fancies? Wot—me?I'm back to the Army again!Next week I'll 'ave 'em fitted; I'll buy me a swagger-cane;They'll let me free o' the barricks to walk on the Hoe againIn the name o' William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,An'—any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again:Out o' the cold an' the rain, sergeant,Out o' the cold an' the rain.'Oo's there?A man that's too good to be lost you,A man that is 'andled an' made—A man that will pay what 'e cost youIn learnin' the others their trade—parade!You're droppin' the pick o' the ArmyBecause you don't 'elp 'em remain,But drives 'em to cheat to get out o' the streetAn' back to the Army again!
March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.Front!—eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.Front! The faces of the women in the 'ousesAin't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!The Large Birds o' PreyThey will carry us away,An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.Time!—mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er—Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.'Alt, an' 'and 'er out—a woman's gone and fainted!Cheer! Get on—Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow—No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us!'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin'—Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!)The jackal an' the kite'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)The eagle an' the crowThey are waitin' ever so,An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)Yes, the Large Birds o' PreyThey will carry us away,An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!
As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style.'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates,an' I sez to 'im, “'Oo are you?”Sez 'e, “I'm a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too!”Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite—soldier an' sailor too!An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things,Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot,an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,An' 'e sweats like a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too!For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do—You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe—'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse—soldier an' sailor too.We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock,and drunk with 'em in betweens,When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids,an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,We sent for the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves,and they never ask what's to do,But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes—soldier an' sailor too.You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards,Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,The same as the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!They come of our lot, they was brothers to us;they was beggars we'd met an' knew;Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;For they weren't no special chrysanthemums—soldier an' sailor too!To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drillis a damn tough bullet to chew,An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eapsan' bein' mopped by the screw,So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves,an' the rest are as rank as can be,But once in a while we can finish in style(which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends,an' the work you may 'ave to do,When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know—they 'ave proved it plain and true—That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear,(“It's all one,” says the Sapper),The Lord He created the Engineer,Her Majesty's Royal Engineer,With the rank and pay of a Sapper!When the Flood come along for an extra monsoon,'Twas Noah constructed the first pontoonTo the plans of Her Majesty's, etc.But after fatigue in the wet an' the sun,Old Noah got drunk, which he wouldn't ha' doneIf he'd trained with, etc.When the Tower o' Babel had mixed up men's bat,Some clever civilian was managing that,An' none of, etc.When the Jews had a fight at the foot of a hill,Young Joshua ordered the sun to stand still,For he was a Captain of Engineers, etc.When the Children of Israel made bricks without straw,They were learnin' the regular work of our Corps,The work of, etc.For ever since then, if a war they would wage,Behold us a-shinin' on history's page—First page for, etc.We lay down their sidings an' help 'em entrain,An' we sweep up their mess through the bloomin' campaign,In the style of, etc.They send us in front with a fuse an' a mineTo blow up the gates that are rushed by the Line,But bent by, etc.They send us behind with a pick an' a spade,To dig for the guns of a bullock-brigadeWhich has asked for, etc.We work under escort in trousers and shirt,An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt,Annoying, etc.We blast out the rock an' we shovel the mud,We make 'em good roads an'—they roll down the khud,Reporting, etc.We make 'em their bridges, their wells, an' their huts,An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts,An' it's blamed on, etc.An' when we return, an' from war we would cease,They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace,Which are kept for, etc.We build 'em nice barracks—they swear they are bad,That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad,Insultin', etc.They haven't no manners nor gratitude too,For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do,But mock at, etc.Now the Line's but a man with a gun in his hand,An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand,When helped by, etc.Artillery moves by the leave o' the ground,But we are the men that do something all round,For we are, etc.I have stated it plain, an' my argument's thus(“It's all one,” says the Sapper),There's only one Corps which is perfect—that's us;An' they call us Her Majesty's Engineers,Her Majesty's Royal Engineers,With the rank and pay of a Sapper!
It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope;It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt.'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope;It were just a bloomin' knock-out—an' our fault!Now there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,Nor there ain't no band to play;An' I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,Or seen what I seed that day!We was sick o' bein' punished, an' we let 'em know it, too;An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword,An' some one shouted “'Ook it!” an' it come to sove-ki-poo,An' we chucked our rifles from us—O my Gawd!There was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep—No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front begun to go;But, Christ! along the line o' flight they cut us up like sheep,An' that was all we gained by doin' so.I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man,Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't 'alt to see,Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran,An' I thought I knew the voice an'—it was me!We was 'idin' under bedsteads more than 'arf a march away;We was lyin' up like rabbits all about the countryside;An' the major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e lived to see that day,An' the colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried.We was rotten 'fore we started—we was never disciplined;We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed;Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind,So we had to pay for teachin'—an' we paid!The papers 'id it 'andsome, but you know the Army knows;We was put to groomin' camels till the regiments withdrew,An' they gave us each a medal for subduin' England's foes,An' I 'ope you like my song—because it's true!An' there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,Nor there ain't no band to play;But I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,Or seen what I seed that day!
A Song of Instruction
The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time—So was them that fought at Waterloo!All the 'ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,They was once dam' sweeps like you!Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,We'll learn you not to forget;An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,For we'll make you soldiers yet!The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad stocks beneath their chins,Six inch 'igh an' more;But fatigue it was their pride, and they would not be deniedTo clean the cook-'ouse floor.The men that fought at Minden, they had anarchistic bombsServed to 'em by name of 'and-grenades;But they got it in the eye (same as you will by-an'-by)When they clubbed their field-parades.The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad buttons up an' down,Two-an'-twenty dozen of 'em told;But they didn't grouse an' shirk at an hour's extry work,They kept 'em bright as gold.The men that fought at Minden, they was armed with musketoons,Also, they was drilled by 'alberdiers;I don't know what they were, but the sergeants took good careThey washed be'ind their ears.The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad ever cash in 'andWhich they did not bank nor save,But spent it gay an' free on their betters—such as me—For the good advice I gave.The men that fought at Minden, they was civil—yuss, they was—Never didn't talk o' rights an' wrongs,But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it—so!)—For interrupting songs.The men that fought at Minden, they was several other thingsWhich I don't remember clear;But that's the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,The rooks will stand the beer!Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,We'll learn you not to forget;An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,For we'll make you soldiers yet!Soldiers yet, if you've got it in you—All for the sake of the Core;Soldiers yet, if we 'ave to skin you—Run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw—Johnny Raw!Ho! run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw!
We've got the cholerer in camp—it's worse than forty fights;We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away,An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more to-day!Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin',The Rains are fallin'—The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below;The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us;The Chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to 'ear us—To 'ear us—O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so!Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail,Though they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've 'ad us back by rail;But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away;An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day.There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite to drink;It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march and think;An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say,“Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!”'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things—Lieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin' wings,An' Lances actin' Sergeants—eight file to obey—For we've lots o' quick promotion on ten deaths a day!Our Colonel's white an' twitterly—'e gets no sleep nor food,But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good.'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay—But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day.Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides,An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day.An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catholicks—He knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy conjurin' tricks;An' the two they works together when it comes to play or pray;So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a day.We've got the cholerer in camp—we've got it 'ot an' sweet;It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we must eat.We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay,An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day!Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin',The Bugle's callin'!The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below!An' them that do not like it they can lump it,An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it;We've got to die somewhere—some way—some'ow—We might as well begin to do it now!Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners—so!Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow!Oh, strike—oh, strike your camp an' go!(Gawd 'elp us!)
I've taken my fun where I've found it;I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time;I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts,An' four o' the lot was prime.One was an 'arf-caste widow,One was a woman at Prome,One was the wife of a jemadar-sais,An' one is a girl at 'ome.Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies,For, takin' 'em all along,You never can say till you've tried 'em,An' then you are like to be wrong.There's times when you'll think that you mightn't,There's times when you'll know that you might;But the things you will learn from the Yellow an' Brown,They'll 'elp you a lot with the White!I was a young un at 'Oogli,Shy as a girl to begin;Aggie de Castrer she made me,An' Aggie was clever as sin;Older than me, but my first un—More like a mother she were—Showed me the way to promotion an' pay,An' I learned about women from 'er!Then I was ordered to Burma,Actin' in charge o' Bazar,An' I got me a tiddy live 'eathenThrough buyin' supplies off 'er pa.Funny an' yellow an' faithful—Doll in a teacup she were,But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,An' I learned about women from 'er!Then we was shifted to Neemuch(Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now),An' I took with a shiny she-devil,The wife of a nigger at Mhow;'Taught me the gipsy-folks' bolee;Kind o' volcano she were,For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white,And I learned about women from 'er!Then I come 'ome in the trooper,'Long of a kid o' sixteen—Girl from a convent at Meerut,The straightest I ever 'ave seen.Love at first sight was 'er trouble,She didn't know what it were;An' I wouldn't do such, 'cause I liked 'er too much,But—I learned about women from 'er!I've taken my fun where I've found it,An' now I must pay for my fun,For the more you 'ave known o' the othersThe less will you settle to one;An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin',An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see;So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),An' learn about women from me!What did the Colonel's Lady think?Nobody never knew.Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife,An' she told 'em true!When you get to a man in the case,They're like as a row of pins—For the Colonel's Lady an' Judy O'GradyAre sisters under their skins!