’E don’t take all fer granted
That yer murderers an’ thieves,
An’ always tell yer, now’s ther time
Fer turnin’ over leaves.
’E’ll wander round ther trenches,
Jest to pass ther time o’ day.
An’ there ain’t a bloke as doesn’t feel
A man ’as passed that way.
I remember once, near Wipers,
When things was pretty ’ot,
An’ yer ’ad ter keep yer nut down
If yer didn’t want it shot;
While they was fairly plasterin’
As fast as they could load,
’E came ridin’—mark yer, ridin—
All down ther Menin Road.
’E was dossin’ in a “staminay,”
Pyjamas all complete,
When a ’igh-explosive carried
’Arf the ’ouse into the street.
While other blokes was runnin’ wild,
An’ kickin’ up a row,
’E calmly arsts, “Pray, what is the
Correct procedure now?”
They tells ’im as ’e’d better
Do a bunk for all ’e’s worth,
As ’is bloomin’ “staminay” is not
Ther safest spot on earth.
But ’e ’as a look around ’im,
An’ wags ’is bally ’ead;
Ses ’e, “It seems quite restful now,”
An’ back ’e goes to bed.
But ’e fairly put ther lid on
When we made ther last attack:
If ’is lads was goin’ ter cop it,
’E weren’t fer ’angin’ back.
So ’e ’ops out of ther trenches
Level with ther foremost ’ound,
An’ natural like ’e stops one
An’ gets a little wound.
’E’s a sportsman is our Padre,
Of that there ain’t a doubt.
’E don’t chuck religion at yer,
An’ preach at yer an’ spout.
Still, ’e’ll show ther way ter ’Eaven—
That’s if anybody can—
But we’d follow ’im to ’ell; ’cos why?
Our Padre ’e’s a man.
CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS
ANONYMOUS
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
OH, the General with his epaulets, leadin’ a parade;
The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin’ of their braid;
The Major and the Skipper—none of ’em look so fine
As a newly minted corp’ral, comin’ down the line.
Oh, the Bishop in his miter pacin’ up the aisle;
The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women smile;
The Congressman, the Mayor—aren’t in it, I opine,
With a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line.