TO A CIGARETTE—IN THE TRENCHES
I’m up to my knees in cold water,
There’s “Zeps” droppin’ bombs from the sky,
But I don’t care a jot for the whole bloomin’ lot;
I’ve got you—and my matches are dry!
A right guid frien’ ye are tae me,
Ye gie me strength an’ vigor.
A comforter ye are. But, oh!
If only ye’d been bigger!
I’m a bloomin’ modest ’ero ’oo the boys say never swanks,
And I’ve never told my story to reporters,
But I’ll be a bloomin’ Kiplin’ if they like, by way of thanks,
For the blessed cigarette the post’s just brought us.
Oh, Kitchener is worth a lot, and so is Johnny French;
We talk a heap about ’em both when sitting in our trench.
But if you want to know the chap whose name should be wrote big,
I tell yer straight, the best of all is good old Gen’ral Cig.
Here’s to the beggar that hasn’t a smoke,
Nor a “fag-paper” even to make one;
And here’s to the toff, may he never go broke,
Who asks Tommy Atkins to take one.
Bully beef and cocoa—you’re right when in the fray.
Cold roast beef and pickles—in barracks you’re my lay.
Chicken soup and jellies, in hospital you get.
But I’d swap ’em all, and welcome, for you, my cigarette.
When the “Black Marias” are tumbling, dancing, bursting, spitting, grumbling;
And to blow us all to bits is what they’re after;
Ah, my little cigarette, you’re the cheeriest friend I’ve met,
For you help to turn the slaughter into laughter.