I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer, 
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
 The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
 I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: 
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away"; 
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play When The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, 
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, 
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; 
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, 
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll push me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But a "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide When the trooper’s on the tide, my boys, the trooper’s on the tide, O a "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' a-mock o' uniforms that guard you in your sleep Is cheaper than the uniforms, an’, by christ, they’re cheap. An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is a muchly better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an “Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But its " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
 When the drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
 O a "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, o that much is true,
 But single men in barricks, remarkable like you;
 An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
 Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; 
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an “Tommy, fall be'ind," 
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind When there's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' for all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
 Don't mess about the cookery slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an “Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
 An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
 An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that, Tommy sees!

The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; 
God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again. The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; O, yes they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again. The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey, 
The purple wine of Paradise, But we have better at the price; It's wine they praise in Paradise, It's cider that they pray. The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey, It's the wine they praise in Paradise, It's cider that they pray. The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End, 
The apple wine of Herford,
Of Hafod Hill and Herford,
Where woods went down to Herford, And there I had a friend. The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End, Where woods went down to He-erford, And there I had a friend. The soft feet of the blessed go
In the soft western vales, 
The road of silent saints accord, The road from heaven to Herford, Where the apple wood of Herford Goes all the way to Wales. The soft feet of the blessed go
In the soft western vales, Where the apple wood of He-erford Goes all the way to Wales. The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine; O, yes they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again.

Take up the White Man's burden - Send forth the best ye breed - Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need; To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild - Your new-caught sullen peoples, Half devil and half child. Take up the White Man's burden - In patience to abide To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride; By open speech and simple,
A hundred times made plain, To seek another's profit, And work another's gain. Take up the White Man's burden - The savage wars of peace - Fill full the mouth of famine And bid the sickness cease; And when your goal is nearest The end for others sought, Watch Sloth and heathen Folly Bring all your hopes to nought. Take up the White Man's burden - No tawdry rule of kings, But toil of serf and sweeper - The tale of common things. The ports ye shall not enter, The roads ye shall not tread, Go make them with your living, And mark them with your dead ! Take up the White Man's burden - And reap his old reward, The blame of those ye better, The hate of those ye guard - The cry of hosts ye humour (Ah slowly !) towards the light:- "Why brought ye us from bondage, "Our loved Egyptian night ?" Take up the White Man's burden - Ye dare not stoop to less - Nor call too loud on Freedom To cloak your weariness; By all ye cry or whisper, By all ye leave or do, The silent sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you. Take up the White Man's burden - Have done with childish days - The lightly proffered laurel, The easy, ungrudged praise. Comes now, to search your manhood Through all the thankless years, Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgement of your peers. Take up the White Man's burden Through all the thankless years

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, 
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, ‘And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
 A merry road, a mazy road, such as we did tread 
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head. I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, 
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire; 
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
 To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in hands, The night we went to Glastonbury by way o’ Goodwin Sands. His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
 Behind him; and the hedges all strengthen in the sun? 
The wild thing went left to right and knew not which was which, But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch. God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
 The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier. My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
 Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, 
But walk with clearer eyes and ears the path that wandereth, And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen, Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green. A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire A merry road, a mazy road, The Rolling English Road!

My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore, Hong-Kong Peshawur,
 Lucknow and Etawah, And fifty-five more all endin' in "pore". 
Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness, Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way, 
But I'm old and I'm nervous, I'm cast from the Service,
 And all I deserve is a shillin' a day. (Chorus) Shillin' a day, What a Bloomin' good pay Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day! Shillin' a day, boys, A Bloomin' good pay Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day! Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side, When we rode Hell-for-leather, both squadrons together, That didn't care whether we lived or we died. 
But it's no use despairin', my wife must go charin' An' me commissairin' the pay to better, 
So if me, you behold, in the wet and the cold,
 By the Grand Metropold, please give me a letter. (Chorus) Give 'im a letter - Can't do no better, Late Troop-Sergeant-Major runs with a letter! Give 'im his letter - Can't do no better, Late Troop-Sergeant-Major runs with a letter! Shillin' a day, What a Bloomin' good pay - Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day! Shillin' a day, boys, a Bloomin' good pay Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!

You may talk o' gin and beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot-it; But when it comes to slaughter 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 me time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I ever knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! "You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! "Hi! Slippy 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 piece o' twisty 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' eyebrows 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 “I’ll marrow you this minute "If you don't fill up me helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would 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 hear the front-ranks shout, "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I shan''t forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where me 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 me 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water green. It was crawlin' and 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 At the place where 'e is gone Where it's always double drill and no canteen. 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drinks to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot, And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of vapour musing up me Maggie’s face. O, Maggie’s pretty to look at— O, Maggie’s a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks’ll wrinkle, and the truest of love’ll pass. There’s peace in a Larranaga, calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is both finished and thrown away— Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— But I couldn’t throw away me Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town! Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot, And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Which is the better portion—love bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? I will scent ’em with vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of all of me brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love or me good ol’ Nick o’ Teen. Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot, And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere’ me eyelids close, This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty they will send me my brides again! Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot, And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— Old friends, who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke! O, a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke!