I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these
gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever
in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ’ousemaids outer
Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’,
but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby
’and—
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter
maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay .
. .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is
like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’
a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’
it’s there that I would be—
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the
awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes
play,
An’ the dawn comes up
like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
Troopin’, troopin’, troopin’ to
the sea:
’Ere’s September come again—the
six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be’ind us, for they cannot
come away
To where the ship’s a-coalin’ up that
takes us ’ome today.
We’re goin’ ‘ome,
we’re goin’ ’ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An’ you must pack your ’aversack,
For we won’t come back
no more.
Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I’ll marry you yit on
a fourp’ny bit
As a time-expired man.
The Malabar’s in ’arbour with the Jumner
at ’er tail,
An’ the time-expired’s waitin’ of
’is orders for to sail.
Ho! the weary waitin’ when on Khyber ’ills
we lay,
But the time-expired’s waitin’ of ’is
orders ’ome today.
They’ll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold
an’ wet an’ rain,
All wearin’ Injian cotton kit, but we will not
complain;
They’ll kill us of pneumonia—for
that’s their little way—
But damn the chills and fever, men, we’re goin’
’ome today!
Troopin’, troopin’, winter’s round
again!
See the new draf’s pourin’ in for the
old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you’ve got to earn
your pay—
What’s the last from Lunnon, lads? We’re
goin’ there today.
Troopin’, troopin’, give another cheer—
‘Ere’s to English women an’ a quart
of English beer.
The Colonel an’ the regiment an’ all who’ve
got to stay,
Gawd’s mercy strike ’em gentle—Whoop!
we’re goin’ ’ome today.
We’re goin’ ‘ome,
we’re goin’ ’ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An’ you must pack your
’aversack,
For we won’t come
back no more.
Ho, don’t you grieve
for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I’ll marry you yit
on a fourp’ny bit
As a time-expired man.
