The Widow at Windsor

'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.

     [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'ind

    That 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 forces

          O' 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 frown

    When 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 land

    Wherever 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 play

    To 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 require

          A speedy return to their 'ome.

     [Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!]:

Rudyard Kipling

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 to-day,

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 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 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 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 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 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!

Rudyard Kipling

Mandalay

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 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 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 English 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!

Rudyard Kipling

Gentlemen-Rankers

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.

Yes, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,

    And faith he went the pace and went it blind,

And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,

    But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.

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!

Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,

    And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,

To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops

    And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.

Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be "Rider" to your troop,

    And branded with a blasted worsted spur,

When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy living cleanly

    Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you "Sir".

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,

    And all we know most distant and most dear,

Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,

    Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?

When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters

    And the horror of our fall is written plain,

Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,

    Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

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!

Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,

    Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,

And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us

    And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.

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!

Rudyard Kipling

L'Envoi to Barrack-Room Ballads

THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

    And the ricks stand gray to the sun,

Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,

    And your English summer's done."

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song -- how long! how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,

    Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

    Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,

    And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

    Of a black Bilbao tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

    Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea

    In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

    And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

    And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass,

It's "Hawsers warp her through!"

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

    And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep

    To the sob of the questing lead!

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Gunfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light

    That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors

    Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

    And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

    And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue.

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They're God's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start --

    We're steaming all-too slow,

And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

    Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song -- how long! how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And The Deuce knows what we may do --

But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're down, hull down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.

Rudyard Kipling