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!
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 juldee
3 in it
Or I’ll
marrow 4 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 mussick 5 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.
