Verses 1889-1896 E-Book

Rudyard Kipling

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Rudyard Kipling's 'Verses 1889-1896' is a collection of poetry that showcases his unmatched talent for storytelling and deep understanding of the human condition. Written in Kipling's signature style, the verses in this book cover a wide range of themes such as imperialism, patriotism, and the beauty of nature. The poems are known for their vivid imagery and powerful language, making them a captivating read for anyone interested in exploring the complexities of life and society during the late 19th century. Each poem in the collection offers a glimpse into Kipling's views on various societal issues, making it a valuable literary work for those studying the era's history and literature. Kipling's use of rhythmic patterns and compelling narratives adds depth to the overall impact of the poems, solidifying his reputation as a master poet of his time.

Leseprobe

Rudyard Kipling

Verses 1889-1896

 

EAN 8596547339816

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

CONTENTS FOLLOWED BY FIRST LINES

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS 1889-1891

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

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

OTHER VERSES

THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

THE LAST SUTTEE

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF

THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS

THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN”

THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR”

THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB

THE EXPLANATION

THE GIFT OF THE SEA

EVARRA AND HIS GODS

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

THE LEGEND OF EVIL

THE ENGLISH FLAG

“CLEARED”

AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT

TOMLINSON

L'ENVOI TO “LIFE'S HANDICAP”

L'ENVOI

THE SEVEN SEAS

To the City of Bombay

THE SEVEN SEAS

A SONG OF THE ENGLISH

THE FIRST CHANTEY

THE LAST CHANTEY

THE MERCHANTMEN

M'ANDREW'S HYMN

THE MIRACLES

THE NATIVE-BORN

THE KING

THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS

THE DERELICT

THE ANSWER

THE SONG OF THE BANJO

THE LINER SHE'S A LADY

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT

ANCHOR SONG

THE LOST LEGION

THE SEA-WIFE

HYMN BEFORE ACTION

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE

THE FLOWERS

THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS

IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE

THE STORY OF UNG

THE THREE-DECKER

AN AMERICAN

THE “MARY GLOSTER”

SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

“BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN”

“BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH

“SOLDIER AN' SAILOR 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

THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY

“MARY, PITY WOMEN!”

FOR TO ADMIRE

L'ENVOI

CONTENTS FOLLOWED BY FIRST LINES

Table of Contents

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS 1889-1891

Table of Contents

TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

To T. A. I have made for you a song,

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

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

“FUZZY-WUZZY” We've fought with many men acrost the seas,

SOLDIER, SOLDIER “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

SCREW-GUNS Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,

CELLS I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick:

GUNGA DIN You may talk o' gin and beer

OONTS Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?

LOOT If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,

“SNARLEYOW” This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps,

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR 'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor?

BELTS There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East,

MANDALAY By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,

TROOPIN' Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea,

THE WIDOW'S PARTY “Where have you been this while away?”

FORD O' KABUL RIVER Kabul town's by Kabul river,

GENTLEMEN-RANKERS To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,

ROUTE MARCHIN' We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,

SHILLIN' A DAY My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly,

OTHER VERSES

THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

THE LAST SUTTEE Udai Chand lay sick to death,

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST When spring-time flushes the desert grass,

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,

THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF O woe is me for the merry life,

THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS . . . At the close of a winter day,

THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN” It was our war-ship Clampherdown,

THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” Seven men from all the world back to Docks again,

THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai,

THE EXPLANATION Love and Death once ceased their strife,

THE GIFT OF THE SEA The dead child lay in the shroud,

EVARRA AND HIS GODS Read here: This is the story of Evarra — man —,

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,

THE LEGEND OF EVIL This is the sorrowful story,

THE ENGLISH FLAG Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro,

“CLEARED” Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,

AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,

TOMLINSON Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,

L'ENVOI TO “LIFE'S HANDICAP” My new-cut ashlar takes the light,

L'ENVOI There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

[In India, the swastika is an ancient symbol of good fortune. Kipling frequently used the swastika in this context.]

THE SEVEN SEAS 1891-1896

DEDICATION The Cities are full of pride,

THE SEVEN SEAS

A SONG OF THE ENGLISH Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage!

The Coastwise Lights Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees,

The Song of the Dead Hear now the Song of the Dead — in the North by the torn berg-edges,

The Deep-Sea Cables The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar —,

The Song of the Sons One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door —,

The Song of the Cities Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen,

England's Answer Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban,

THE FIRST CHANTEY Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her,

THE LAST CHANTEY Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim,

THE MERCHANTMEN King Solomon drew merchantmen,

M'ANDREW'S HYMN Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,

THE MIRACLES I sent a message to my dear,

THE NATIVE-BORN We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her!

THE KING “Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said,

THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS Away by the lands of the Japanee,

THE DERELICT I was the staunchest of our fleet,

THE ANSWER A Rose, in tatters, on the garden path,

THE SONG OF THE BANJO You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile,

THE LINER SHE'S A LADY The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds,

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea,

ANCHOR SONG Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again! FROM “MANY INVENTIONS”.

THE LOST LEGION There's a Legion that never was 'listed,

THE SEA-WIFE There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,

HYMN BEFORE ACTION The earth is full of anger,

TO THE TRUE ROMANCE Thy face is far from this our war, FROM “MANY INVENTIONS”.

THE FLOWERS Buy my English posies!

THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS The king has called for priest and cup,

IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage,

THE STORY OF UNG Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,

THE THREE-DECKER Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail,

AN AMERICAN If the Led Striker call it a strike,

THE “MARY GLOSTER” I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim,

SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

“BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN” I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,

“BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies,

“SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO” As I was spitting into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,

SAPPERS When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear,

THAT DAY It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope,

“THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN” The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time,

CHOLERA CAMP We've got the cholerer in camp — it's worse than forty fights,

THE LADIES I've taken my fun where I've found it,

BILL 'AWKINS “'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?”

THE MOTHER-LODGE There was Rundle, Station Master,

“FOLLOW ME 'OME” There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,

THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN' 'E was warned agin 'er,

THE JACKET Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi,

THE 'EATHEN The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone,

THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant,

“MARY, PITY WOMEN!” You call yourself a man,

FOR TO ADMIRE The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles,

L'ENVOI When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES

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1889-1891

TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER

Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled — Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled — Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world. They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays, They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days, It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father's praise. 'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are, Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war, Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star. They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth — they dare not grieve for her pain — They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's law is plain, So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain. And ofttimes 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. To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame — Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame, Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came. He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth — E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth, In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth. So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high And made him place at the banquet board — the Strong Men ranged thereby, Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die. Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled, Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled, Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

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To T. A.

I have made for you a song, And it may be right or wrong, But only you can tell me if it's true; I have tried for to explain Both your pleasure and your pain, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! O there'll surely come a day When they'll give you all your pay, And treat you as a Christian ought to do; So, until that day comes round, Heaven keep you safe and sound, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! R. K.

DANNY DEEVER “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?” “I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly — But you'd best go look for a new love.” “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Did aught take 'arm to my true love?” “I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white — An' you'd best go look for a new love.” “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll up an' tend to my true love!” “'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, An' you'd best go look for a new love.” “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll down an' die with my true love!” “The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im — An' you'd best go look for a new love.” “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Do you bring no sign from my true love?” “I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear, An' you'd best go look for a new love.” “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!” “An' I tell you truth again — when you've lost the feel o' pain You'd best take me for your true love.” True love! New love! Best take 'im for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best take 'im for your true love.

SCREW-GUNS

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Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule, With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets It's only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets — 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you! So when we call round 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 can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns! They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't: We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint: We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits, For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are built in two bits — 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns . . . If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave. You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss. D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us — 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns . . . The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow, An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules — the jinglety-jink o' the chains — 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns . . . There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, an' the sun off the snow in your face, An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 'er place — 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns . . . Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule. The monkey can say what our road was — the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed. Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast — 'Tss! 'Tss! 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!

CELLS

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I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick: I've a mouth like an old potato, and I'm more than a little sick, But I've had my fun o' the Corp'ral's Guard: I've made the cinders fly, And I'm here in the Clink for a thundering drink and blacking the Corporal's eye. With a second-hand overcoat under my head, And a beautiful view of the yard, O it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B. For “drunk and resisting the Guard!” Mad drunk and resisting the Guard — 'Strewth, but I socked it them hard! So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B. For “drunk and resisting the Guard.” I started o' canteen porter, I finished o' canteen beer, But a dose o' gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here. 'Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt; But I fell away with the Corp'ral's stock and the best of the Corp'ral's shirt. I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road, And Lord knows where, and I don't care, my belt and my tunic goed; They'll stop my pay, they'll cut away the stripes I used to wear, But I left my mark on the Corp'ral's face, and I think he'll keep it there! My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard, It ain't that I mind the Ord'ly room — it's that that cuts so hard. I'll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain, But as soon as I'm in with a mate and gin, I know I'll do it again! With a second-hand overcoat under my head, And a beautiful view of the yard, Yes, it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B. For “drunk and resisting the Guard!” Mad drunk and resisting the Guard — 'Strewth, but I socked it them hard! So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B. For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”

GUNGA DIN

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