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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!

Gunga Din

       Table of Contents

      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.

      Now in Injia's sunny clime,

       Where I used to spend my time

       A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,

       Of all them blackfaced crew

       The finest man I knew

       Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

      He was "Din! Din! Din!

       You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!

       Hi! slippy hitherao!

Water, get it! Panee lao!¹ You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

      The uniform 'e wore

       Was nothin' much before,

       An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,

       For a piece o' twisty rag

       An' a goatskin water-bag

       Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.

      When the sweatin' troop-train lay

       In a sidin' through the day,

       Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,

We shouted "Harry By!"² Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

      It was "Din! Din! Din!

       You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?

You put some juldee³ in it Or I'll marrow⁴ you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

      'E would dot an' carry one

       Till the longest day was done;

       An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.

      If we charged or broke or cut,

       You could bet your bloomin' nut,

       'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.

With 'is mussick⁵ on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire", An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.

      When the cartridges ran out,

       You could hear the front-files shout,

       "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

      I shan't forgit the night

       When I dropped be'ind the fight

       With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.

       I was chokin' mad with thirst,

       An' the man that spied me first

       Was our

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