Part 38 (2/2)

NEWS FROM THE FRONT [Sidenote: _C.E.B. in the ”Evening News”_]

This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations of a disgustful kind.

Our sojers they was weepin'

The night we went away For some one whispered we was off The Germans for to slay.

To shoot them cultured Bosches Would make a Briton shrink And so our 'earts was sad to go (I _don't_ think).

An' when we met them blighters Of course we turned and ran, An' Tubby French 'e shouted out ”All save theirselves as can”; An' when the big Jack Johnsons banged We didn't cheer and larf An' pump the Bosches full o' lead (No, not 'arf).

An' w'en our foes retreated We knowed we couldn't win For they was out, that artful like, To lure us to Berlin.

But touch that 'ome of culture?

We'd rather far be shot; We simply wors.h.i.+p Kaiser Bill (P'raps, p'raps not).

FALL IN!

[Sidenote: _H.B._]

What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack When the girls line up the street, Shouting their love to the lads come back From the foe they rushed to beat?

Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky And grin till your cheeks are red?

But what will you lack when your mates go by With a girl who cuts you dead?

Where will you look, sonny, where will you look When your children yet to be Clamour to learn of the part you took In the War that kept men free?

Will you say it was naught to you if France Stood up to her foe or bunked?

But where will you look when they give the glance That tells you they know you funked?

How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare In the far-off winter night, When you sit by the fire in an old man's chair And your neighbours talk of the fight?

Will you slink away, as it were from a blow, Your old head shamed and bent?

Or say--I was not with the first to go, But I went, thank G.o.d, I went!

Why do they call, sonny, why do they call For men who are brave and strong?

Is it naught to you if your country fall, And Right is smashed by Wrong?

Is it football still and the picture show, The pub and the betting odds, When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow And England's call is G.o.d's?

DIES IRAE [Sidenote: _Owen Seaman in ”Punch”_]

To the German Kaiser

Amazing Monarch! who at various times, Posing as Europe's self-appointed saviour, Afforded copy for our ribald rhymes By your behaviour;

We nursed no malice; nay, we thanked you much, Because your head-piece, swollen like a tumour, Lent to a dullish world the needed touch Of saving humour.

What with your wardrobes stuffed with warrior gear, Your gander-step parades, your prancing Prussians, Your menaces that shocked the deafened sphere With rude concussions;

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