Fight, fight,
fight for the soldier . . .
When shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind
the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-,
startles the soldier . . .
If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look
white,
Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier
. . .
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s
plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a
soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of
the Queen!
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at
the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I
know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells
they say:
“Come you back, you British soldier; come you
back to Mandalay!”
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ‘ear
their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes
play,
An’ the dawn comes up
like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er
little cap was green,
An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jes’
the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’
white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen
idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’mud—
Wot they called the Great
Gawd Budd—
Plucky lot she cared for idols
when I kissed ’er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay .
. .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the
sun was droppin’ slow,
She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d
sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ ‘er
cheek agin’ my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis
pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence ’ung
that ’eavy you was ’arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay .
. .
But that’s all shove be’ind me—long
ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’
from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London
what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’,
you won’t never ’eed naught else.”
No! you won’t ‘eed
nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’
the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay .
. .
