An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire," '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. You could 'ear the front-files shout, "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my 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 my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' an' 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 In the place where 'e is gone— Where it's always double drill an' no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals, Givin drink to pore damned souls, An' Blligit a swig in hell from Gunga Din! The Men Behind the Guns Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! Rudyard Kipling [1865 2225 THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS A CHEER and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech— And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe-the men behind the guns! Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys-the lads who serve the But guns. say not a word till the shot is heard that tells that the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the hips of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps-the men behind the guns! Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce tenincher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns! John Jerome Rooney [1866 THE FIGHTING RACE "READ out the names!" and Burke sat back, While Shea-they call him Scholar Jack- The crews of the gig and yawl, The bearded man and the lad in his teens, Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe, Said Burke in an offhand way: "We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe! Kelly and Burke and Shea." Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain," The Fighting Race 2227 "Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke. "Wherever fighting's the game, Or a spice of danger in grown man's work," Said Kelly, "you'll find name." my "And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, "When it's touch-and-go for life?" Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad, Since I charged to drum and fife Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen Stopped a rebel ball on its way; There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green Kelly and Burke and Shea— And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. "I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place," Said Burke, "that we'd die by right, In the cradle of our soldier race, After one good stand-up fight. With Hessian blood on the blade." "Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were great When the word was 'clear the way!' We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight— Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, Said, "We were at Ramillies; We left our bones at Fontenoy And up in the Pyrenees; Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, Cremona, Lille, and Ghent; We're all over Austria, France, and Spain, Wherever they pitched a tent. We've died for England from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai; And still there's enough for a corps or crew, "Well, here's to good honest fighting-blood!" "Oh, the fighting races don't die out, If they seldom die in bed, For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," "When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands, And the battle-dead from a hundred lands Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates— Kelly and Burke and Shea." "Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod!" Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. Joseph I. C. Clarke [1846 |