(If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C.

"It's a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight,"

As Eddie remarks to me.

Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un.

"Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can.

'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?"

So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin'

('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back.

Now what would you do? I arst you.

There was me slaughtered mate.

There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate.

Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper ...

'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red.

"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy.

Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all."

It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small).

The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud.

There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar.

"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy.

Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip."

Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip!

There goes the biff of a bullet.

The Boches have got us for fair.

Another one--_WHUT!_ The son of a s.l.u.t!

'E managed to miss by a 'air.

'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder?

Gave it a dooce of a wrench.

Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free?

Crust! but it's long to the trench.

I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are.

But 'ere's for a bit of a breather.

"Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'.

Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o."

Now war is a funny thing, ain't it?

It's the rummiest sort of a go.

For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show.

'Ere's me wot's a barber's a.s.sistant.

Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance.

The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate.

Them gharstly green star-sh.e.l.ls is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again.

You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?'

'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man.

A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead.

But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror.

Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war."

"'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy.

It's us for the bomb-belt again.

Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain.

It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in.

It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'.

The bullets is buzzin' like bees.

Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees.

But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer.

Just stick it, old sport, play the game.

I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame.

Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer.

'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try.

Did you say: Put you down? d.a.m.n it, no, sir!

I'll carry you in if I die.

By cracky! old feller, they've seen us.

They're sendin' out stretchers for two.

Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through).

My flipper is mashed to a jelly.

A bullet 'as tickled your spleen.

We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But--wot a hoccasion it's been!

Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party.

They're crawlin' out cautious and slow.

Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder--so.

They mustn't think we was down-'earted.

Old pal, we was never down-'earted.

If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"

A Song of Winter Weather

It isn't the foe that we fear; It isn't the bullets that whine; It isn't the business career Of a sh.e.l.l, or the bust of a mine; It isn't the snipers who seek To nip our young hopes in the bud: No, it isn't the guns, And it isn't the Huns-- It's the MUD, MUD, MUD.

It isn't the melee we mind.

That often is rather good fun.

It isn't the shrapnel we find Obtrusive when rained by the ton; It isn't the bounce of the bombs That gives us a positive pain: It's the strafing we get When the weather is wet-- It's the RAIN, RAIN, RAIN.

It isn't because we lack grit We shrink from the horrors of war.

We don't mind the battle a bit; In fact that is what we are for; It isn't the rum-jars and things Make us wish we were back in the fold: It's the fingers that freeze In the boreal breeze-- It's the COLD, COLD, COLD.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, The cold, the mud, and the rain; With weather at zero it's hard for a hero From language that's rude to refrain.

With porridgy muck to the knees, With sky that's a-pouring a flood, Sure the worst of our foes Are the pains and the woes Of the RAIN, the COLD, and the MUD.