Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:
'Ere's September come again—the six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away
To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome to-day.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.

The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,
An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.
Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,
But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome to-day.

They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,
All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
They'll kill us of pneumonia—for that's their little way—
But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome to-day!

Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!
See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay—
What's the last from Lunnon, lads?  We're goin' there to-day.

Troopin', troopin', give another cheer—
'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.
The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,
Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle—Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.

"Burden of rosy apples here I bear; 
Apples as sweet as sin, and half as fair: 
Draw near, and eat, as Eve ate once, of old — 
And gather wisdom ere you gather gold. 
Ah, why delay? Look deep into my eyes — 
Am I not beautiful? Am I not wise— 
Though I too once walked free in Paradise? 
Most fair I am, although my eyes are cold: 
Draw near, and win the apples that I hold. 
The apples half I give and half deny: 
Lo, I am Lilith! will ye eat and die?" 

"Am I a stranger that ye stand so far —? 
My foes that were, my kinsmen now that are —
My foes that were, my lovers that shall be 
By grace of kindly blood poured out for ye. 
Am I a stranger? yet my fruit's as red 
As hers, that tempts the quick to be the dead. 
You welcomed her a barren while ago 
And me with stoning, even as a foe 
You turned away from paths your footsteps know. 
Now she hath cast you out, and here ye see 
Come back to seek your grace, my fruit and me. 
Ye know me now a little, yet God wot, 
Indeed I loved ye while ye knew me not. 
Lo! here I stand to-day with fruit to give, 
Azrael and his apples: eat and live!"