Gunga Din (by Rudyard Kipling)

Gunga Din
by Rudyard Kipling
[from Departmental Ditties and Barrack-Room Ballads, 1890]

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,^[1] Gunga Din.
                He was “Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
                Hi! slippery hitherao!^[2]
                Water, get it! Panee lao! ^[3]
    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!” ^[4]
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^[5] in it
                Or I’ll marrow^[6] you this minute
    If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

‘E would dot an’ carry one^[7]
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^[8] 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.
                When the cartridges ran out,
                You could hear the front-files shout,
    “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
                It was “Din! Din! Din!
    ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
                ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,
                An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
    For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died,
“I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ‘im later on
At the place where ‘e is gone —
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
                Yes, Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
                Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
                By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
    You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


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NOTES (courtesy of Wikisource):

1. Water carrier


2. Come here


3. Bring water


4. O brother


5. Be quick


6. hit


7. Skip or move irregularly


8. Water-skin

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The Absent-Minded Beggar (by Rudyard Kipling)

The Absent-Minded Beggar
 by Rudyard Kipling, 1899

When you’ve shouted “Rule Britannia,” when you’ve sung “God save the Queen,”
    When you’ve finished killing Kruger with your mouth,
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
    For a gentleman in khaki ordered South?
He’s an absent-minded beggar, and his weaknesses are great—
    But we and Paul must take him as we find him—
He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate—
    And he’s left a lot of little things behind him!
Duke’s son—cook’s son—son of a hundred kings—
    (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of ’em doing his country’s work
    (and who’s to look after their things?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
                          and pay—pay—pay!

There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to,
    For he knew he wouldn’t get it if he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due,
    And it’s more than rather likely there’s a kid.
There are girls he walked with casual. They’ll be sorry now he’s gone,
    For an absent-minded beggar they will find him,
But it ain’t the time for sermons with the winter coming on.
    We must help the girl that Tommy’s left behind him!
Cook’s son—Duke’s son—son of a belted Earl—
    Son of a Lambeth publican—it’s all the same to-day!
Each of ’em doing his country’s work
    (and who’s to look after the girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
                          and pay—pay—pay!

There are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak,
    And they’ll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,
And they’ll live on half o’ nothing, paid ’em punctual once a week,
    ‘Cause the man that earns the wage is ordered out.
He’s an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,
    And his reg’ment didn’t need to send to find him!
He chucked his job and joined it—so the job before us all
    Is to help the home that Tommy’s left behind him!
Duke’s job—cook’s job—gardener, baronet, groom,
    Mews or palace or paper-shop, there’s something gone away!
Each of ’em doing his country’s work
    (and who’s to look after the room?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
                          and pay—pay—pay!

Let us manage so as, later, we can look him in the face,
    And tell him—what he’d very much prefer—
That, while he saved the Empire, his employer saved his place,
    And his mates (that’s you and me) looked out for her.
He’s an absent-minded beggar and he may forget it all,
    But we do not want his kiddies to remind him
That we sent ’em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul,
    So we’ll help the homes that Tommy left behind him!
Cook’s home—Duke’s home—home of a millionaire,
    (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of ’em doing his country’s work
    (and what have you got to spare?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
                          and pay—pay—pay!



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