Poem by Rudyard Kipling

«Barrack-Room Ballads». 21. Route Marchin’

We’re marchin’ on relief 
                              over Injia’s sunny plains,
A little front o’ Christmas-time 
                              an’ just be’ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, 
                              you’ve ’eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ 
                              down the Grand Trunk Road;
    	         With its best foot first
    	         And the road a-sliding past,
    	An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground 
                              exactly like the last;
    	         While the Big Drum says,
    	         With ’is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” –
    	“Kiko kissywarsti 
                              don’t you hamsher argy jow?” *
 
Oh, there’s them Injian temples 
                              to admire when you see,
There’s the peacock round the corner 
                              an’ the monkey up the tree,
An’ there’s that rummy silver grass 
                              a-wavin’ in the wind,
An’ the old Grand Trunk a-trailin’
                              like a rifle-sling be’ind.
    	         While it’s best foot first, . . .
 
At half-past five’s Revelly, 
                              an’ our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms 
                              when you pick ’em up at ’ome.
But it’s over in a minute, 
                              an’ at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies 
                              sit an’ shiver in the carts.
    	         An’ it’s best foot first, . . .
 
Oh, then it’s open order, 
                              an’ we lights our pipes an’ sings,
An’ we talks about our rations 
                              an’ a lot of other things,
An’ we thinks o’ friends in England, 
                              an’ we wonders what they’re at,
An’ ’ow they would admire 
                              for to hear us sling the bat.**
    	         An’ it’s best foot first, . . .
 
It’s none so bad o’ Sunday, 
                              when you’re lyin’ at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin’
                              round them feather-’eaded trees,
For although there ain’t no women, 
                              yet there ain’t no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin’
                              an’ the men they plays at cards.
    	         Till it’s best foot first, . . .
 
So ’ark an’ ’eed, you rookies, 
                              which is always grumblin’ sore,
There’s worser things than marchin’ 
                              from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An’ if your ’eels are blistered 
                              an’ they feels to ’urt like ’ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks 
                              an’ that will make ’em well.
    	         For it’s best foot first, . . .
 
We’re marchin’ on relief 
                              over Injia’s coral strand,
Eight ’undred fightin’ Englishmen, 
                              the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, 
                              you’ve ’eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ 
                              down the Grand Trunk Road;
    	         With its best foot first
    	         And the road a-sliding past,
    	An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground 
                              exactly like the last;
    	         While the Big Drum says,
    	         With ’is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” –
    	“Kiko kissywarsti 
                              don’t you hamsher argy jow?”

1. The First Chantey
2. The Last of the Light Brigade
3. Tarrant Moss
4. France
5. Lady Geraldine's Hardship

Print

5074 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version