BY the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’
eastward to the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she
thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells
they say:
“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to
Mandalay!”
Come
you back to
Mandalay,
Where
the old Flotilla
lay:
Can’t you
’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to
Mandalay?
On the
road to
Mandalay,
Where
the flyin’-fishes
play,
An’ the
dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
’Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green,
An’ ’er name
was Supi-yaw-lat—jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first
a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses
on an ’eathen idol’s
foot:
Bloomin’
idol made
o’mud—
Wot they
called the Great Gawd
Budd—
Plucky lot
she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where she
stud!
On the road
to Mandalay . . .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’
slow,
She’d git ’er little banjo an’ she’d sing
“Kulla-lo-lo!”
With ’er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’er cheek agin’
my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’
teak.
Elephints
a-pilin’ teak
In
the sludgy, squdgy
creek,
Where the
silence ’ung that ’eavy you was ’arf afraid to
speak!
On the
road to Mandalay . . .
But that’s all shove be’ind me—long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there
ain’t no ’busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’
’ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ’eard the
East a-callin’, you won’t never ’eed naught
else.”
No! you
won’t ’eed nothin’
else
But them
spicy garlic
smells,
An’ the
sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly
temple-bells;
On
the road to Mandalay . . .
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the
blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with
fifty ’ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’
lovin’, but wot do they
understand?
Beefy
face an’ grubby
’and—
Law! wot do
they
understand?
I’ve
a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener
land!
On the road
to Mandalay . . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the
worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a
thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would
be—
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the
sea;
On the road
to
Mandalay,
Where
the old Flotilla
lay,
With our
sick beneath the awnings when we went to
Mandalay!
On the
road to
Mandalay,
Where
the flyin’-fishes
play,
An’
the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!
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