Barrack Room Ballads & Departamental Ditties and Ballads

by Rudyard Kipling

First collected in 1892, Kipling's Barrack-Room Ballads relive the experiences of soldiers sent around the world to defend the Empire-all for little pay and less appreciation. An immediate success, they were unlike anything the public had seen before, as they were mostly written in Cockney.

Genres: Poetry, Classics, Fiction, Literature, British Literature, Military Fiction

252 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1892

About the author

Joseph Rudyard Kipling was a journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist.

Kipling's works of fiction include The Jungle Book (1894), Kim (1901), and many short stories, including The Man Who Would Be King (1888). His poems include Mandalay (1890), Gunga Din (1890), The Gods of the Copybook Headings (1919), The White Man's Burden (1899), and If— (1910). He is regarded as a major innovator in the art of the short story; his children's books are classics of children's literature; and one critic described his work as exhibiting "a versatile and luminous narrative gift".

Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom, in both prose and verse, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Henry James said: "Kipling strikes me personally as the most complete man of genius (as distinct from fine intelligence) that I have ever known." In 1907, at the age of 41, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, making him the first English-language writer to receive the prize, and its youngest recipient to date. He was also sounded out for the British Poet Laureateship and on several occasions for a knighthood, both of which he declined.

Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907 "in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author."

Kipling kept writing until the early 1930s, but at a slower pace and with much less success than before. On the night of 12 January 1936, Kipling suffered a haemorrhage in his small intestine. He underwent surgery, but died less than a week later on 18 January 1936 at the age of 70 of a perforated duodenal ulcer. Kipling's death had in fact previously been incorrectly announced in a magazine, to which he wrote, "I've just read that I am dead. Don't forget to delete me from your list of subscribers."

Reviews

[Paul Bryant · Rating 5 out of 5]

Rudyard Kipling is, I think, someone we think we should like only at arm’s length, through filters, with a snowstorm of disclaimers attached, using every if and but and apologising in advance with bells & whistles & hooters that yes he had some unacceptable opinions and used at least one unacceptable word fairly frequently, he was a man of his times, but, he was still, if you can squint your eyes, and in a certain light, and with the wind in the right direction, be considered a great poet. There, I said it!

I have a gorgeous edition of this famous book, first published April 1892. This edition was published in 1911 so it’s exactly one hundred years old. It cost me £2 a few years ago.

What I find in these ballads is a profound sympathy. He has pity, endless pity, for the poor idiots caught up in these giant chunks of history, like empire-building and empire-maintenance. The idiots in question are the poor infantry soldiers who get the sharp end of the terrible decisions and criminal indifference of their generals and officers. There's one ballad called "The Widow’s Party", the Widow being Queen Victoria, and the party being a small military disaster which probably went unreported in the press. The soldiers have been invited to this party, and they can’t refuse the invitation, much as they may wish to. It's in the form of a dialogue, and Kipling lays on the sarcasm:

"What did you get to eat and drink,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Standing water as thick as ink,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, ah!
A bit o' beef that were three year stored,
A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,
And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,
When the Widow give the party.

"What did you do for knives and forks,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, ah!
And some was sliced and some was halved,
And some was crimped and some was carved,
And some was gutted and some was starved,
When the Widow give the party.


And Kipling, who we are told was the great supporter of Empire and a colonialist through and through, strikes a poignant, almost despairing note :

"What was the end of all the show,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Ask my Colonel, for I don't know,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
We broke a King and we built a road--
A court-house stands where the reg'ment goed.
And the river's clean where the raw blood flowed
When the Widow give the party.

It’s not exactly bunting in the streets is it. Dour cynicism is pretty much the default emotion in The Barrack-Room Ballads. Here he is on the plight of the new recruits:

When the cholera comes - as it will past a doubt -
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier...!

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

And when he’s done excoriating the awful life of the ordinary soldier, and listing the many ordinary miseries (like troop-marching and gonorrhea) and gruesome deaths (like cholera) which await him, he then turns round and exposes the repulsive nature of Tommy Atkins himself, in a remarkable ballad called "Loot" – here we have a jovial, knowing, winking, violently racist manual of how to get the good stuff for the soldier – how this ever saw the light of print and was not censored for the undermining, subversive expose which it was, I can’t say. So here is some “advice” for the new recruit who’s being posted off to foreign parts:

Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god
That 'is eyes is very often precious stones;
An' if you treat a n**** to a dose o' cleanin'-rod
'E's like to show you everything 'e owns.
When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor
Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot
When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,
An' you're sure to touch the loot

When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs--
It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find--
For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,
An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind.
When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt
As if there weren't enough to dust a flute
Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look,
For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot.


You wouldn’t get away with satirising the Army like that these days. This is very vicious stuff.

(Chorus) Loot! loot! loot! Oh the loot!
Bloomin' loot!
That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot!

So after all this cynicism and frank horror about what Great Britain was up to in its vast colonies, it’s a relief to come across "Mandalay", a great ballad of a soldier who’s come back from the East to England and realises he must have fallen in love back there in Burma – he just didn’t know it when he was there, but now he does - he remembers with a pang the woman he met back there, he remembers a kind of wonderland and he can't quite believe he was really there:

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 used to watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephants 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... where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


It’s sentimental, yes, but it’s sentiment dragged out of a dark place and then denied


But that's all shoved be'ind me - long ago an' far 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... Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


Yes, there's a lot wrong with Kipling, but there's an awful lot right too.

[Lancelot Schaubert]

Found out Kipling (1) wrote Fuzzy Wuzzy (2) was intended as praise (3) was coopted as a racial slur by checks notes Australian soldiers.

[Hamad AlMannai · Rating 5 out of 5]

I’m sure I’m not supposed to like Rudyard Kipling, he’s deservedly been called everything (racist, white supremacist, colonialist, xenophobic), a relic of his times. he’s a great poet in spite of that.
These ballads are really entertaining. Most were written in the late nineteenth century and inspired by his 7 years spent in India, Burma, Japan..
You do get a very strong feeling of being in the absurdist/fatalistic world of war barracks.
My two favourite poems were ‘Mandaay’ and ‘Gunga Din’. (Below)


‘By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at 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 English 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!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !’



“You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,
He was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
‘Hi! Slippy hitherao
‘Water, get it! Panee lao,
‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’
The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
‘You put some juldee in it
‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute
‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’
’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’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.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’
I shan’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’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ and 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
At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!”

[Gela Tevzadze · Rating 5 out of 5]

Probably the most impressive collection of poems glorifying (sometimes rightfully, sometimes not quite so) the colonial policy and foreign troops. Most likely, quite a few political/military figures escaped the historical obscurity only because of their place in Kipling's ballads.

[Jearrod Fountain · Rating 2 out of 5]

A slog. He’s beloved by a certain type for upholding classism, and using any racial slur he can find and being a white supremacist.

This crowd will read “The White Man's Burden” which calls for the imperialism of "half-devil and half-child” (people of color), and that it’s a burden to colonize them when they should be grateful instead of upset about being slaughtered and stolen from.

This features his most famous or second most famous derivative work depending on how you see it, Fuzzy Wuzzy, which is a racial slur directed at the targets traditional hair style. Though people like to say the piece was a compliment on how good at war they were.. the compliment:

So here’s to you Fuzzy Wuzzy, at your home in the Soudan;
You’re a poor Benighted heathen but a first class fighting man;
And here’s to you Fuzzy Wuzzy, with your hayrick head of hair;
You big black bounding beggar-for you broke a British square!

(I did clear that up into modern English because just those four lines has 11 apostrophes in the English version believe it or not lol)



I could go on but most of the work is anywhere from bad to ok and his beloved followers usually just praise all his work without criticism because they support the type of person he was.

Departmental ditties is a 2/5 and account for most of the worst offenders, and Barrack-Room Ballads a 3/5. Best one is Tommy which I actually enjoyed a lot but the combination ends this with a 2.5/5

Probably not worth reading for most people, but it only takes like an hour and a half despite being 200+ pages. Also I have the 1899 printing not whatever this version is.

[Zaphied · Rating 4 out of 5]

Took a bit to translate some of the slang into modern English use(american). But it became much faster once I had my head voice speaking it instead.

Funny how a good deal of the themes are still to this day true.

[Adarsh Beckhm · Rating 5 out of 5]

Rudyard Kipling , one of prodigious writer whom I admire a plentitood. I have smmatring longing for ballad but Daney deever, loot, oont , fuzzy-wuzzy , young British soldiers, are few among of them who made me obstinate in mine liking,I hope it may does same to you as to me.

[J.J. Bruce · Rating 5 out of 5]

Classic Kipling, and a history lesson for a lot of military expeditions in that part of the world.

[Gene Georgelis · Rating 2 out of 5]

Was hard reading. I didn't enjoy it very much.

[D]

These aren’t pleasant little ditties or bawdy cadences. They are all gut punches of the soldier’s experience.

[julie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Twelve hundred million men are spread
About this Earth, and I and You
Wonder, when you and I are dead,
What will those luckless millions do?

[J Grimsey · Rating 4 out of 5]

Enjoyable Poems

[Cynthia Moore · Rating 1 out of 5]

impossible to read

[David Highton · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some great narrative poems in this collection

[Jeremy Helton · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am not sure this is the exact version that I have. Mine is a 1906 hardback with a picture of a viking longboat on the cover.

I really like Kipling's poetry. Some of my favorites are "Mandalay," "Gunga Din," "Tommy," and "Danny Deever."

This is stern, sometimes hard and unflinching, but it tells it like it was to be a British soldier serving in India during the Raj.

[Mark Isaak · Rating 4 out of 5]

A lot of Kipling's vocabulary is particular to British soldiers in India. A lot of his poems are written in dialect. Both practices give his poems authenticity but make them harder to read. The poems in this collection are a mixed bag. A few are great, more are so-so but have some brilliant lines in them, and others are forgettable.

[Patrick DiJusto · Rating 5 out of 5]

Kipling is the poet laureate of British Imperialism, or so they say. Of course, the reality is a little more complicated than that -- first and foremost, Kipling is on the side of the humble soldier who maintains the Empire, not the politicians who created and expanded it in the first place.

[Bill · Rating 2 out of 5]

There's some fun in here for sure, but I got a bit bogged down in the classical references and rapidly tired of the martial themes. 'course Kipling is all about martial themes so go figure.

[Tom Austin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Kipling Gets It.

[James · Rating 4 out of 5]

I have read Danny Deevers from this selection and enjoyed it...

[Christopher · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kipling should be mandatory reading for anyone deploying to Afghanistan. Some absolutely wonderful martial verse in this short collection from the late 19th Century.

[Virginia Ogden]

Lots of interesting British words. Accounts from the British military involvement in India. Includes the poem Gunga Din. Fun to read.