Part 12 (2/2)

Says he: ”Old chummy, I'm booked right through; Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.

But ... 'aven't you got a pinch of s.h.a.g?-- I'd sell me peris.h.i.+n' soul for a f.a.g.”

And there he s.h.i.+vered and cussed his luck, So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.

And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it Like a babby takes to his mammy's t.i.t; Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black, So I left him there and I started back.

And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.

Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, And one little blighter just chipped me ear.

But there! I got to the trench all right, When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, And a word that doesn't look well in type: _I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE._

So I had to do it all over again, Crawling out on that filthy plain.

Through sh.e.l.ls and bombs and bullets and all-- Only this time--I do not crawl.

I run like a man wot's missing a train, Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.

I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) I run like a man that's no ideer Of hunting around for a sooveneer.

I run bang into a German chap, And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.

And just to show him that I'm his boss, I gives him a kick on the parados.

And I marches him back with me all serene, With, _TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN._

_Sitting here in the trenches Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, But it smashes me old dudeen.

G.o.d blast that red-headed sniper!

I'll give him somethin' to snipe; Before the war's through Just see how I do That blighter that smashed me pipe._

The Little Piou-piou

* The French ”Tommy”.

Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum.

They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou, Piou-piou, The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou.

_Encore un pet.i.t verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un pet.i.t verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train._

They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France.

For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou.

En avant!

The way of the gallant piou-piou, The das.h.i.+ng and smas.h.i.+ng piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive._

To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So ”crummy”, yet gay as can be.

<script>