The Heathen

The heathen in his blindness bows down to wood and stone;
He don’t obey no orders unless they is his own;
He keeps his side-arms awful: he leaves them all about,
And then up comes the Regiment and pokes the heathen out.

All along of dirtiness, all along of mess,
All along of doing things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul , and hazer-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle and yourself just so!

The young recruit is haughty—he drafts from God knows where;
They bid him show his stockings and lay his mattress square;
He calls it bloomin’ nonsense—he doesn't know, no more—
And then up comes his Company and kicks him round the floor!

The young recruit is hammered—he takes it very hard;
He hangs his head and mutters—he sulks about the yard;
He talks of “cruel tyrants” which he’ll swing for by-and-by,
And the others hear and mock him, and the boy goes off to cry.

The young recruit is silly—he thinks of suicide.
He’s lost his gutter-devil; he hasn’t got his pride;
But day by day they kicks him, which helps him on a bit,
Till he finds himself one morning with a full an’ proper kit.

Getting clear of dirtiness, getting done with mess,
Getting shut of doing things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep his rifle and himself just so!

The young recruit is happy—he throws a chest to suit;
You see him grow mustaches; you hear him slap his boot.
He learns to drop the “bloodies” from every word he slings,
And he shows a healthy brisket when he strips for bars and rings.

The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch him half a year;
They watch him with his comrades, they watch him with his beer;
They watch him with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send his name along for “Lance”.

And now he’s half of nothing, and all a private yet,
His room they up and rag him to see what they will get.
They rag him low and cunning, each dirty trick they can,
But he learns to sweat his temper and he learns to sweat his man.

And, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyd,
He schools his men at cricket, he tells them on parade;
They see him quick and handy, uncommon set and smart,
And so he talks to officers which have the Corps at heart.

He learns to do his watching without it showing plain;
He learns to save a dummy, and shove him straight again;
He learns to check a ranker that’s buying leave to shirk;
And he learns to make men like him so they’ll learn to like their work.

And when it comes to marching he’ll see their socks are right,
And when it comes to action he shows them how to sight.
He knows their way of thinking and just what’s in their mind;
He knows when they are taking on and when they fall behind.

He knows each talking corporal that leads a squad astray;
He feels his innards heaving, his bowels giving way;
He sees the blue-white faces all trying hard to grin,
And he stands and waits and suffers till it’s time to cap them in.

And now the ugly bullets come pecking through the dust,
And no one wants to face them, but every beggar must;
So like a man in irons, which isn’t glad to go,
They move them off by companies uncommon stiff and slow.

Of all his five years schooling they don’t remember much
Except the not retreating, the step and keeping touch.
It looks like teaching wasted when they duck and spread and hop-
But if he hadn’t taught them they’d be all about the shop.

And now it’s “Who goes backward?” and now it’s “Who comes on?”
And now it’s “Get the doolies,” and now the Captain’s gone;
And now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they hear
His voice, the same as barracks-drill, shepherding the rear.

He’s just as sick as they are, his heart is like to split,
But he works them, works them, works them till he feels them take the bit;
The rest is holding steady till the watchful bugles play,
And he lifts them, lifts them, lifts them through the charge that wins the day.

The heathen in his blindness bows down to wood and stone;
He don’t obey no orders unless they is his own.
The heathen in his blindness must end where he began,
But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!

Keep away from dirtiness—keep away from mess,
Don’t get into doing things rather-more-or-less!
Let’s have done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;
Mind you keep your rifle and yourself just so!

Rudyard Kipling