The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 27

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' n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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--beG.o.d, 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' tongue Was the song that we sung From Harrison's down to the Park!

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER

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 deceased Ere '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 b.u.t.ts-- 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 find That 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 loath To shoot when you catch 'em--you'll swing, on my oath!-- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's h.e.l.l 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 luck And 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 b.i.t.c.h; 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 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!

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein PaG.o.da, 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 cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.

Elephints a-pilin' teak In 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' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the suns.h.i.+ne 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!