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?”