Barrack-Room Ballads

So I'll meet 'im later on

At the place where 'e is gone—

Where it's always double drill and no canteen.

'E'll be squattin' on the coals

Givin' drink to poor damned souls,

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,

You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

For to admire an' for to see,

For to be'old this world so wide—

It never done no good to me,

But I can't drop it if I tried!

An' I learned about women from 'er.

And oft-times cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,

And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;

And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.

For you all love the screw-guns the screw-guns they all love you!

So when we take tea with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do—hoo! hoo!

Jest send in your Chief an' surrender it's worse if you fights or you runs:

You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, but you can't get away from the guns!

I've taken my fun where I've found it;

I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time.

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

You will do your work on water,

An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Chuck him out, the brute!”

But it's “Saviour of 'is country” when the guns begin to shoot.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.

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.

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!

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!

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor

With 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.

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.

“What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade.

“To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

Oh the road to Mandalay

Where the flyin'-fishes play

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer

China 'crost the Bay!

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!”

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 luck

And march to your front like a soldier.

Front, front, front like a 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...

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 others

The less will you settle to one.

But he couldn't lie if you paid him and he'd starve before he stole.

'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive

An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;

You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man.

For the colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady,

Are sisters under their skins.

They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,

An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

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 brains

An' 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!