'Twas in the days of front attack,
This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it,
That every "front" has got a "back,"
And French is just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the ground
Was lying flat behind a hummock;
He proved the good old proverb sound,
"An army travels on its stomach!"
He lay as flat as any fish,
His nose had worn a little furrow,
He only had one frantic wish—
That like an ant-bear he could burrow.
The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The four-point seven supplied the bass;
You'd think the Devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling near
Observed his most supine behaviour
And crawled towards him, "Eh! what cheer?
Buck up," says he "I've come to save yer!"
"You get up on my shoulders, mate!
And if we live beyond the firing,
I'll get a V.C. sure as fate,
Because our blokes is all retiring.
"It's fifty pound a year," says he,
"I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky."
"No," says the wounded man, "not me,
I won't be saved; it's far too risky!
"I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
I've worn a hole that seems to fit me,
But if you lift me off the ground
It's fifty pound to one they'll hit me!"
So off towards the firing-line
His mate crept slowly to the rear, oh!
Remarking, "What a selfish swine!
He might have let me be a hero!"