Verses 1889-1896. Rudyard KiplingЧитать онлайн книгу.

        This ‘appened in a battle to a batt’ry of the corps

        Which is first among the women an’ amazin’ first in war;

        An’ what the bloomin’ battle was I don’t remember now,

        But Two’s off-lead ‘e answered to the name o’ Snarleyow.

            Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;

            Down in the Cavalry, Colonel ‘e swears;

            But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog

            Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

        They was movin’ into action, they was needed very sore,

        To learn a little schoolin’ to a native army corps,

        They ‘ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin’ down the brow,

        When a tricky, trundlin’ roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.

        They cut ‘im loose an’ left ‘im – ‘e was almost tore in two —

        But he tried to follow after as a well-trained ‘orse should do;

        ‘E went an’ fouled the limber, an’ the Driver’s Brother squeals:

        “Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow – ‘is head’s between ‘is ‘eels!”

        The Driver ‘umped ‘is shoulder, for the wheels was goin’ round,

        An’ there ain’t no “Stop, conductor!” when a batt’ry’s changin’ ground;

        Sez ‘e:  “I broke the beggar in, an’ very sad I feels,

        But I couldn’t pull up, not for you – your ‘ead between your ‘eels!”

        ‘E ‘adn’t ‘ardly spoke the word, before a droppin’ shell

        A little right the batt’ry an’ between the sections fell;

        An’ when the smoke ‘ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,

        There lay the Driver’s Brother with ‘is ‘ead between ‘is ‘eels.

        Then sez the Driver’s Brother, an’ ‘is words was very plain,

        “For Gawd’s own sake get over me, an’ put me out o’ pain.”

         They saw ‘is wounds was mortial, an’ they judged that it was best,

        So they took an’ drove the limber straight across ‘is back an’ chest.

        The Driver ‘e give nothin’ ‘cept a little coughin’ grunt,

        But ‘e swung ‘is ‘orses ‘andsome when it came to “Action Front!”

         An’ if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head

        ‘Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.

        The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:

        You ‘avn’t got no families when servin’ of the Queen —

        You ‘avn’t got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons —

        If you want to win your battles take an’ work your bloomin’ guns!

            Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;

            Down in the Cavalry, Colonel ‘e swears;

            But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog

            Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

        ‘Ave you ‘eard o’ the Widow at Windsor

         With a hairy gold crown on ‘er ‘ead?

        She ‘as ships on the foam – she ‘as millions at ‘ome,

         An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.

            (Ow, poor beggars in red!)

        There’s ‘er nick on the cavalry ‘orses,

         There’s ‘er mark on the medical stores —

        An’ ‘er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind

         That takes us to various wars.

            (Poor beggars! – barbarious wars!)

               Then ‘ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,

                An’ ‘ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,

               The men an’ the ‘orses what makes up the forces

                O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.

               (Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)

        Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,

         For ‘alf o’ Creation she owns:

        We ‘ave bought ‘er the same with the sword an’ the flame,

         An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones.

            (Poor beggars! – it’s blue with our bones!)

        Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,

         Hands off o’ the goods in ‘er shop,

        For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown

         When the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”!

            (Poor beggars! – we’re sent to say “Stop”!)

               Then ‘ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,

                From the Pole to the Tropics it runs —

               To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’ the file,

                An’ open in form with the guns.

               (Poor beggars! – it’s always they guns!)

        We ‘ave ‘eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,

         It’s safest to let ‘er alone:

        For ‘er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land

         Wherever the bugles are blown.

            (Poor beggars! – an’ don’t we get blown!)

        Take ‘old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,

         An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;

        But you won’t get away from the tune that they play

         To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.