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!

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to

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 templebells 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

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 ...

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