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Call a truce, then, to our labors -- let us feast with friends and neighbors, and be merry as the custom of our caste; for if faint and forced the laughter, and if sadness follow after, we are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
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Back to the army again, sergeant, / Back to the army again, / Out o' the cold an' the rain.
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There's no jealousy in the grave.
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On the road to Mandalay Where the flyin' fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the bay.
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All we have of freedom -- all we use or know -- This our fathers bought for us, long and long ago.
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