And me to stay 'ere till I'm '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 offers me 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 natural,