'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at WindsorWith a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome,An' she pays us poor beggars in red.(Ow, poor beggars in red!)There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,There's 'er mark on the medical stores—An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'indThat takes us to various wars.(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 forcesO' Missis Victorier's sons.(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.(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 frownWhen the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”!(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.(Poor beggars!—it's always they guns!)We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,It's safest to let 'er alone:For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the landWherever the bugles are blown.(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 playTo the bloomin' old rag over'ead.(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 requireA speedy return to their 'ome.(Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!)
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.For it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”O buckle an' tongueWas the song that we sungFrom Harrison's down to the Park!There was a row in Silver Street—the regiments was out,They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an' we answered “Threes about!”That drew them like a hornet's nest—we met them good an' large,The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.Then it was:—“Belts...”There was a row in Silver Street—an' I was in it too;We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the stormA Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.O it was:—“Belts...”
There was a row in Silver Street—they sent the Polis there,The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.For it was:—“Belts...”There was a row in Silver Street—it might ha' raged till now,But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.While it was:—“Belts...”There was a row in Silver Street—but that put down the shine,Wid each man whisperin' to his next: “'Twas never work o' mine!”We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.When it was:—“Belts...”There was a row in Silver Street—it isn't over yet,For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:There was a row in Silver Street—begod, I wonder why!But it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”O buckle an' tongueWas the song that we sungFrom Harrison's down to the Park!
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 deceasedEre 'e'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,So-oldier of the Queen!Now all you recruities what's drafted today,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,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—Keep out of the wet and 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: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,Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;Be handy and civil, and then you will findThat it's beer for the young British soldier.Beer, beer, beer for the soldier...Now, if you must marry, take care she is old—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 loathTo shoot when you catch 'em—you'll swing, on my oath!—Make 'im take 'er and 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,Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luckAnd march to your front like a soldier.Front, front, front like a soldier...When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;She's 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,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,Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,And wait for supports like a soldier.Wait, wait, wait like a soldier...When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,And the women come out to cut up what remains,Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brainsAn' go to your Gawd like a soldier.Go, go, go like a soldier,Go, go, go like a soldier,Go, go, go like a soldier,So-oldier of the Queen!
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at 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 today.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 today.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 today!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 today.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 today.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.
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.
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?” 2Oh, 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.1An' 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?"2
1 Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profoundOrientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact,he depends largely on the sign-language.2 Why don't you get on