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 black-faced 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! slippey hitherao!

Water! get it! Panee lao!

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 twisty piece o' 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' eye-brows crawl,

We shouted "Harry By!"

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 in it

Or I'll marrow you this minute,

If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E was 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 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 'ear the front-files shout,

"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n'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' 'e plugged me where I bled,

An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:

It was crawlin' an' 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

In the place where 'e is gone

Where it's always double drill an' no canteen;

'E'll be squattin' on the coals,

Givin' drink to pore damned souls,

An' I'll git a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you an' flayed you,

By the livin' Gawd that made

you,

You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Rudyard Kipling [1865–

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

A CHEER and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,

And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!

They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech

And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they preach:

But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons,

The men below who batter the foe-the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more,

When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore;

And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street

Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce “mustache”

to eat

Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns

The modest worth of the sailor boys—the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the

fight is on,

Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don,"

Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,

And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living

hell;

Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,

You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps-the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,

And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce tenincher saith!

The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,

And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-

But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and

runs,

Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

John Jerome Rooney [1866

THE FIGHTING RACE

"READ out the names!" and Burke sat back,
And Kelly drooped his head,

While Shea-they call him Scholar Jack—
Went down the list of the dead.
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines,

The crews of the gig and yawl,

The bearded man and the lad in his teens,
Carpenters, coal-passers-all.

Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe,

Said Burke in an offhand way:

“We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe!

Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain," Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke.

"Wherever fighting's the game,

Or a spice of danger in grown man's work,"

Said Kelly, "you'll find my name."

And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad,

"When it's touch-and-go for life?"

Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad,

Since I charged to drum and fife

Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen

Stopped a rebel ball on its way;

There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green

Kelly and Burke and Shea

And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place,"

Said Burke, "that we'd die by right,

In the cradle of our soldier race,

After one good stand-up fight.
My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill,
And fighting was not his trade;
But his rusty pike's in the cabin still,

With Hessian blood on the blade.'

"Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great

When the word was 'clear the way!'

We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight

Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy,

Said, "We were at Ramillies;

We left our bones at Fontenoy

And up in the Pyrenees;

Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain,

Cremona, Lille, and Ghent;

We're all over Austria, France, and Spain,

Wherever they pitched a tent.

We've died for England from Waterloo
To Egypt and Dargai;