Barrack Room Ballads E-Book

Rudyard Kipling

• Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 80

Beschreibung

Rudyard Kipling was a prolific British writer and poet.  Kipling’s children fiction, specifically The Jungle Books and Just So Stories, are some of the most famous in English literature.  This edition of Barrack Room Ballads includes a table of contents.

Leseprobe

BARRACK ROOM BALLADS

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Rudyard Kipling

KYPROS PRESS

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

This book is a work of poetry; its contents are wholly imagined.

All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

Copyright © 2015 by Rudyard Kipling

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Barrack Room Ballads

First Series (1892)

Danny Deever

Tommy

Fuzzy-Wuzzy

Soldier, Soldier

Screw-Guns

Cells

Gunga Din

Oonts

Loot

‘Snarleyow’

The Widow at Windsor

Belts

The Young British Soldier

Mandalay

Troopin’

The Widow’s Party

Ford o’ Kabul River

Gentlemen-Rankers

Route Marchin’

Shillin’ a Day

Second Series (1896)

‘Bobs’

‘Back to the Army Again’

‘Birds of Prey’ March

‘Soldier an’ Salor Too’

Sappers

That Day

‘The Men that fought at Minden’

Cholera Camp

The Ladies

Bill ‘Awkins

The Mother-Lodge

‘Follow Me ‘Ome’

The Sergeant’s Weddin’

The Jacket

The ‘Eathen

‘Mary, Pity Women!’

For to Admire

BARRACK ROOM BALLADS

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FIRST SERIES (1892)

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DANNY DEEVER

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

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

“What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.

“I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

The regiment’s in ‘ollow square—they’re hangin’ him to-day;

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

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

“What makes the rear-rank breathe so ‘ard?” said Files-on-Parade.

“It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

“What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.

“A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ‘im round,

They ‘ave ‘alted Danny Deever by ‘is coffin on the ground;

An’ ‘e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound—

O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

“‘Is cot was right-’and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.

“‘E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

“I’ve drunk ‘is beer a score o’ times”, said Files-on-Parade.

“‘E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ‘im to ‘is place,

For ‘e shot a comrade sleepin’—you must look ‘im in the face;

Nine ‘undred of ‘is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,

While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

“What’s that so black agin’ the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.

“It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

“What’s that that whimpers over’ead?” said Files-on-Parade.

“It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ‘ear the quickstep play,

The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;

Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,

After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

TOMMY

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I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,

The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”

The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;

But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,

But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;

But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,

The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,

O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;

An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”

But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

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;

While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,

But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,

There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,

O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:

We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

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;

An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;

An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

FUZZY-WUZZY

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(Soudan Expeditionary Force)

We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,

An’ some of ‘em was brave an’ some was not:

The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;

But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.

We never got a ha’porth’s change of ‘im:

‘E squatted in the scrub an’ ‘ocked our ‘orses,

‘E cut our sentries up at Suakim,

An’ ‘e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.

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;

We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed

We’ll come an’ ‘ave a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber ‘ills,

The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,

The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,

An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:

But all we ever got from such as they

Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;

We ‘eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,

But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ‘oller.

Then ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;

Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.

We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ‘ardly fair;

But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

‘E ‘asn’t got no papers of ‘is own,

‘E ‘asn’t got no medals nor rewards,

So we must certify the skill ‘e’s shown

In usin’ of ‘is long two-’anded swords:

When ‘e’s ‘oppin’ in an’ out among the bush

With ‘is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,

An ‘appy day with Fuzzy on the rush

Will last an ‘ealthy Tommy for a year.

So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,

If we ‘adn’t lost some messmates we would ‘elp you to deplore;

But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,

For if you ‘ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

‘E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,

An’, before we know, ‘e’s ‘ackin’ at our ‘ead;

‘E’s all ‘ot sand an’ ginger when alive,

An’ ‘e’s generally shammin’ when ‘e’s dead.

‘E’s a daisy, ‘e’s a ducky, ‘e’s a lamb!

‘E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,

‘E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t give a damn

For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!

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;

An’ ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ‘ayrick ‘ead of ‘air—

You big black boundin’ beggar—for you broke a British square!

SOLDIER, SOLDIER

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“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Why don’t you march with my true love?”

“We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

New love! True love!

Best go look for a new love,

The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

What did you see o’ my true love?”

“I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”