| Gentle reader, when you've seen this, |
| Do not think, please, that I mean this |
| As a common or garden convoy day, |
| For the Fany, as a habit |
| Is as jolly as a rabbit— |
Or a jay.
|
| But the're days in one's existence, |
| When the ominous persistence |
| Of bad luck goes thundering heavy on your track, |
| Though you shake him off with laughter, |
| He will leap the moment after— |
On your back.
|
| 'Tis the day that when on waking, |
| You will find that you are taking, |
| Twenty minutes when you haven't two to spare, |
| And the bloomin' whistle's starting, |
| When you've hardly thought of parting— |
Your front hair!
|
| You acquire the cheerful knowledge, |
| Ere you rush to swallow porridge, |
| That "fatigue" has just been added to your bliss, |
| "If the weather's no objection, |
| There will be a car inspection— |
Troop—dismiss!"
|
| With profane ejaculation, |
| You will see "evacuation" |
| Has been altered to an earlier hour than nine, |
| So your 'bus you start on winding, |
| Till you hear the muscles grinding— |
In your spine.
|
| Let's pass over nasty places, |
| Where you jolt your stretcher cases |
| And do everything that's wrong upon the quay, |
| Then it's time to clean the boiler, |
| And the sweat drops from the toiler, |
Oh—dear me!
|
| When you've finished rubbing eye-wash, |
| On your engine, comes a "Kibosch." |
| As the Section-leader never looks at it, |
| But a grease-cap gently twisting, |
| She remarks that it's consisting,— |
"Half of grit."
|
| Then as seated on a trestle, |
| With the toughest beef you wrestle, |
| That in texture would out-rival stone or rock, |
| You are told you must proceed, |
| To Boulogne, with care and speed |
At two o'clock.
|
| As you're whisking through Marquise |
| (While the patients sit at ease) |
| Comes the awful sinking sizzle of a tyre, |
| It is usual in such cases, |
| That your jack at all such places, |
Won't go higher.
|
| A wet, cold rain starts soaking, |
| And the old car keeps on choking, |
| Your hands and face are frozen raw and red, |
| Three sparking-plugs are missing, |
| There's another tyre a-hissing, |
Well—! 'nuff said!
|
| You reach camp as night's descending, |
| To the bath with haste you're wending, |
| A hot tub's the only thing to save a cough, |
| Cries the F.A.N.Y. who's still in it, |
| "Ah! poor soul, why just this minute, |
Water's off!"
|