O good-mornin’, Mister Kiplin’! You are welcome to our shores: To the land of millionaires and potted meat: To the country of the‘ fonteins’ ( we‘ ave got no‘ bads’ or ‘ pores’ ),
To the place where di'monds lay about the street At your feet; To the‘ unting-ground of raiders indiscreet. I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touch
With Tommy wheresoever‘ e may go; An’ you know our‘ bat's’ a shandy, made of‘ Ottentot an’ Dutch, It's a language which is‘ ideous an’ low, Do n't you know
That it's‘ Wacht-een-beitje’‘ stead of‘'Arf a mo’?' We should like to come an’ meet you, but we can n't without a pass; Even then we'd‘ ardly like to make a fuss; For out‘ ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy is n't class;
‘ E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss! Vicious cuss! No, they do n't expect intelligence from us. You‘ ave met us in the tropics, you‘ ave met us in the snows;
But mostly in the Punjab an’ the‘ Ills. You‘ ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows. You‘ ave met us underneath a sun that kills, An’ we grills!
An’ I ask you, do we fill the bloomin’ bills? Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an’ wig, There‘ as always been a bloke wot‘ ad a way Of writin’ of the Glory an’ forgettin’ the fatig’,
‘ Oo saw‘ im in‘ is tunic day by day, Smart an’ gay, An’ forgot about the smallness of his pay! But you're our partic'lar author, you're our patron an’ our friend,
You're the poet of the cuss-word an’ the swear, You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend, You're the poet of the jungle an’ the lair, An’ compare,
To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere! There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays, There are poets wot can drive a man to drink; But it takes a‘ pukka’ poet, in a Patriotic Craze,
To make a chortlin’ nation squirm an’ shrink, Gasp an’ blink; An’‘ eedless, thoughtless people stop an’ think! Yes, the‘ and wot banged the banjo an’ made Tommy comic songs,
‘ Oo wrote of Empires,‘ Lion's‘ Ead to Line,’ ‘ Oo found an‘ idden poem in M'Andrew' s Injin gongs, Was the checkin’‘ and wot gave the warnin’ sign, In a line —
That gave the people soda after wine.
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