Verses 1889-1896. Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

else But 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!

TROOPIN'

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      (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 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 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 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 bit As a time-expired man.

THE WIDOW'S PARTY

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      “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-yard

       To 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 still Where 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 flowed When the Widow give the party. (Bugle: Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!)