We don't expect to meet the Boche, or any o' his machines,
From here to France an' back again—except for submarines."
An' 'e looks again at the 'plane above, an' says, "I do believe
It's a fightin' bus—good luck to them—an' lots of London leave."
An' jolly good luck, says I, says I,
To you that's overhead;
An' may you never go dry, go dry,
Or want for a decent bed.
With yer gaudy patch, says I, says I,
Of Red an' White an' Blue—