The Garden called Gethsemane  
  In Picardy it was,  
And there the people came to see  
  The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass  
  Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas  
  Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,  
  It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
  I prayed my cup might pass.  
The officer sat on the chair,
  The men lay on the grass,  
And all the time we halted there
  I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass—
  It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas  
  Beyond Gethsemane!
Other works by Rudyard Kipling...