A MILE-LONG panto dragon ploddin'
'opeless all the day,
Stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles,
steamin' in its sweat,
A-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed
through the clay,
By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns,
the wildest welter yet,
Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early
in the wet.
We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet
we dunno who;
But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n'
slips the kit,
'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is Mickie
Mollynoo!
A copper of the Port he was, when 'istory
was writ.
Sez I : "We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp
me, this is It."
A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up
with the push
Is all his joy. One evenin' when his
baton's flyin' free
I takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin
the cush,
'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the
world to see,
But not afore indelible he's put his mark on
me.
I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me
lug
Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them
'appy, careless days.
He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchum
and a mug,
'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some-
thin' in his gaze
That's pensive like. "Move on!" sez he.
"Keep movin' there!" he says.
If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous
and crool,
The mills in Butcher's Alley when the
watch is on the wine,
Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to break
the two-up school,
I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that
ain't divine
He's toyin' with a scar of old I reckernise
as mine.
'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how
'n' what.
We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' there
ain't a vacant date;
But sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard
'n' 'ot.
Me lurk is patient waitin', but I'm trim-
min' while I wait
A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin'
tatertate.
Oh, judge me wonder! There's a scrim that follers on a raid. I'm roughin' it all-in with Hans. He sock me such a bat I slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave is made; But Molly butts my Hun, 'n' leaves no face beneath his hat, 'N', "'Scuse me, Mister Herr," sez he, "I have a lien on that!"
He helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me
somethin' wet
(I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin'
pretty sick).
"Lor love yeh, ole John Hop," sez I, "yiv
buried me in debt."
"Don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyes
me arf-a-tick.
'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trims
another brick.
'Tis all this how a month or more; then
Mollynoo sez he:
"Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n'
all to view.
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n'
me.
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the
Continent is you,
Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is
Sargin' Mollynoo!"
I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line
me shirt.
We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger
up a gun
Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like
a squirt.
We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots
the extra one;
Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n',
be'old, the thing is done!