The Complete Poems of Rudyard Kipling – 570+ Titles in One Edition - Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

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For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit

       As a time-expired man.

       Table of Contents

      Kabul town's by Kabul river—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       There I lef' my mate for ever,

       Wet an' drippin' by the ford.

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'

       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

      Kabul town's a blasted place—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face

       Wet an' drippin' by the ford!

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you

       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

      Kabul town is sun and dust—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       I'd ha' sooner drownded fust

       'Stead of 'im beside the ford.

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',

       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

      Kabul town was ours to take—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       I'd ha' left it for 'is sake—

       'Im that left me by the ford.

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,

       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?

      Kabul town'll go to hell—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       'Fore I see him 'live an' well—

       'Im the best beside the ford.

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,

       By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

      Turn your 'orse from Kabul town—

       Blow the bugle, draw the sword—

       'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,

       Down an' drownded by the ford.

       Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,

       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!

       There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'

       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

       Table of Contents

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

       A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;

       Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,

       There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;

       With its best foot first

       And the road a-sliding past,

       An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;

       While the Big Drum says,

       With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!"—

       "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"

      Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,

       There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,

       An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,

       An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.

      While it's best foot first,...

      At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,

       Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.

       But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,

       While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.

      An' it's best foot first,...

      Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,

       An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,

       An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,

      An' it's best foot first,...

      It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,

       To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,

       For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,

       So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.

      Till it's best foot first,...

      So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,

       There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;

       An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,

       You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.

      For it's best foot first,...

      We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,

       Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;

       Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,

       There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;

       With its best foot first

       And the road a-sliding past,

       An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;

       While the Big Drum says,

       With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!"—

       Footnotes:

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