An’ there ain’t no busses runnin’ from the Benk to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells:
“If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, why, you won’t ’eed nothin’ else.”
No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells
An’ the sunshine and the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells!
On the road to Mandalay—
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gutty pavin’ stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes a fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walk with fifty ’ouse-maids outer Chelsea to the Strand,