("What babies they all are," said the very young god.)
GOLD BRAID
Same old crossing, same old boat,
Same old dust round Rouen way,
Same old narsty one-franc note,
Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play";
Same old scramble up the line,
Same old 'orse-box, same old stror,
Same old weather, wet or fine,
Same old blooming War.
Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,
It's just as it used to be, every bit;
Same old whistle and same old bang,
And me out again to be 'it.
'Twas up by Loos I got me first;
I just dropped gently, crawled a yard
And rested sickish, with a thirst—
The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard….
Then someone 'ands me out a drink,
What poets call "the cooling draft,"
And seeing 'im I done a think:
"Blighty," I thinks—and laughed.
I'm not a soldier nacheral,
No more than most of us to-day;
I runs a business with a pal
(Meaning the Missis) Fulham way;
Greengrocery—the cabbages
And fruit and things I take meself,
And she has dafts and crocuses
A-smiling on a shelf.
"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows;
'E talks of punctured damn-the-things.
It's me for Blighty. Down I goes;
I ain't a singer, but I sings.
"Oh, 'oo goes 'ome?" I sort of 'ums;
"Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?"
And by-and-by Southampton comes—
"Blighty!" I says, and roars.
I s'pose I thort I done my bit;
I s'pose I thort the War would stop;
I saw meself a-getting fit
With Missis at the little shop;
The same like as it used to be,
The same old markets, same old crowd,
The same old marrers, same old me,
But 'er as proud as proud….
* * * * *
The regiment is where it was,
I'm in the same old ninth platoon;
New faces most, and keen becos
They thinks the thing is ending soon;
I ain't complaining, mind, but still,
When later on some newish bloke
Stops one and laughs, "A blighty, Bill,"
I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?"