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 . . .