The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 28

On the road to Mandalay...

s.h.i.+p 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 PaG.o.da, 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!

TROOPIN'

(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 away To where the s.h.i.+p's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome today.

We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, Our s.h.i.+p is at the sh.o.r.e, 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 bit As 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 d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+p is at the sh.o.r.e, 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 bit As a time-expired man.

FORD O' KABUL RIVER

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 face Wet 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 thres.h.i.+n', you can 'ear the men a-splas.h.i.+n', '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 h.e.l.l-- 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.

ROUTE MARCHIN'

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 first And 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

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see, There's the peac.o.c.k round the corner an' the monkey up the tree, An' there's that rummy silver gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.ton 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' s.h.i.+ver 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.1

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 first And 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 profound Orientalist 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

The end