Rudyard Kipling

«Barrack-Room Ballads». 17. Troopin’. Old English Army in the East

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 to-day.
   	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 to-day.
 
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 to-day!
 
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 to-day.
 
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 to-day.
    	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.