Rudyard Kipling

«Barrack-Room Ballads». 20. Gentlemen-Rankers

To the legion of the lost ones, 
                         to the cohort of the damned,
 	To my brethren 
                         in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, 
                         machinely crammed,
 	And a trooper of the Empress,
                         if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces 
                         who has run his own six horses,
 	And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin 
                         while he held the ready tin,
 	But to-day the Sergeant’s something 
                         less than kind.

          We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
       			      Baa!  Baa!  Baa!
    	We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
       			      Baa–aa–aa!
    	Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
    	Damned from here to Eternity,
    	God ha’ mercy on such as we,
       			      Baa!  Yah!  Bah!
 
Oh, it’s sweet to sweat through stables, 
                         sweet to empty kitchen slops,
 	And it’s sweet to hear the tales 
                         the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids 
                         at the regimental hops
 	And thrash the cad who says 
                         you waltz too well.
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop 
                         to be “Rider” to your troop,
 	And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
When you envy, O how keenly, 
                         one poor Tommy being cleanly
 	Who blacks your boots and sometimes 
                         calls you “Sir”.
 
If the home we never write to, 
                         and the oaths we never keep,
 	And all we know most distant 
                         and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room 
                         return to break our sleep,
 	Can you blame us 
                         if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken comrade mutters 
                         and the great guard-lantern gutters
 	And the horror of our fall 
                         is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on 
                         the aching white-washed ceiling,
 	Do you wonder 
                         that we drug ourselves from pain?
 
We have done with Hope and Honour, 
                         we are lost to Love and Truth,
 	We are dropping down 
                         the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment 
                         is the measure of our youth.
 	God help us, for we knew 
                         the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance 
                         for the crime that brought the sentence,
 	Our pride it is to know 
                         no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us
                         till an alien turf enfolds us
 	And we die, and none can tell Them 
                         where we died.

    	We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
       			      Baa!  Baa!  Baa!
    	We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
       			      Baa–aa–aa!
    	Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
    	Damned from here to Eternity,
    	God ha’ mercy on such as we,
       			      Baa!  Yah!  Bah!