You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Gunga Din
by Rudyard Kipling

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!

When the children were young we read them a lot of poetry. Just as we were read when we were young. And of course they picked up much of it and it became woven into family conversation just as are quotes from movies and songs.

My wife, though, had been taught in her South Carolina youth, and for some unknown reason, a particular version. Instead of

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?

She learned

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘Where the bloody hell you been?

So that was the version our kids learned.

One day in middle school or junior high, somehow Gunga Din came up in my oldest son's class and he recited the passage including

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘Where the bloody hell you been?

His English teacher was an end-of-career, jaded-to-the-point-of-bitter, crone who greatly under-appreciated my son's energy, wit and repartee.

She dressed him down for misrepresenting the poem.

This wasn't the first run in by any means. Earlier in the year, she had been reading a book Remember the Year by Mary Kinard and Frances Jackson. My son noticed and casually mentioned that it was written by his grandmother. The teacher thought he was yanking her chain and read him the riot act with a bit of an homily on truth telling.

Son came home mildly peeved and wife ended up having to call the teacher to confirm that Mary Kinard was indeed my son's grandmother. So the teacher/son relationship was already rocky.

Then there was the Gunga Din incident. Again, wife had to call teacher, this time to do a mea culpa. Son was not being edgy or sassy. He was just repeating the version of the poem he had learned. Which was the version his mother had learned. In the educational hot house of South Carolina and/or quirky anglophilia of the Old South family.