Hello, Soldier! | Page 8

'n' Pyramids,
Him 'n' me
Hung together, 'n' we tore
Up the heights from Helles
shore,
Bill a long 'arf head afore,
Fine to see!
Then it was we took a touchSimple
puncture, nothin' much;
But we lay
'N' we stays the count, it seems,
In a sorter realm of
dreams
Where the sun infernal gleams
Night 'n' day;
Boilin', fryin' achin', dumb,
Waitin' till the stretchers come,
Patiently.
I hangs on to 'arf a cup.
Which I wants ole Bill to sup.

Damn if he ain't savin' up
His for me!
When they come to lift my head
I am softly kiddin' dead,
For a game,
So's they'll first take on his gills.
Over, though, me
scheme he spillsBli'
me, this ole take-down Bill's
Done the same!
But he isn't kiddin' now,
And it knocks me anyhow
Seein' him.
We was both agreed before,
Though it got 'em by the
score,
Two was goin' to beat this warBut
'n' Jim.
Mate o' mine, yiv stayed it through.
Hard luck, Bill-for me 'n' you

Hard 'n' grim.
They have got me Cobber true,
But I'm stickin' tight
ez glue....
Bill, there's one who'll plug for twoIt
is Jim!
THE CRUSADERS.
WHAT price yer humble, Dicko Smith,
in gaudy putties girt,
With sand-blight in his optics, and much
leaner than he started,
Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in threequarters
of a shirt,
And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick
the Lion 'Earted?
We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin'
up the Turk,
Same ez Richard slung his right across the
Saracen invader
In old days of which I'm readin'. Now
we're gettin' in our work,
'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez a
qualified Crusader!
'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of
Palestine,
Where that hefty little fighter, Bobby
Sable, smit the heathen,
And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed
the Moslem good 'n' fine,
'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the
slickest Dago breathin'.
There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red

cross on me chest,
'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a
swanking load of metal;
We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do
our little best
With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered
ole mess kettle.
Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand
of chivalry;
We don't make a pert procession when
we're movin' up the forces;
We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no
pennants flowin' free,
'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a
circus of the 'orses.
We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out
all the dog
When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's
hectic fever,
Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our
noses in the bog,
'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed
unbeliever.
Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore,
and alwiz kep' a band.
What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's
often 'ardly proper,
And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across
the 'Oly Land
From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the
other side of Jopper.

We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here
is hot;
When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker
than the vermin.
Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some waddlin'
Turkish pot,
'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin'
red-eyed German.
But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko
Smith is in the van,
Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what
could teach King Dick a trifle,
For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out
his
baked-pertater can,
Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a
quaint repeatin' rif1e.
We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and
Siloam is in view.
By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the
Faithful reelin'!
Those old-timers botched the contract, but we
mean to put it through.
Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,
Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'.
We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready
with a hose
Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet
you can rely on;
And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses,
Offelbloom 'n' those
Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come
right

home again to Zion.
PEACE, BLESSED PEACE.
HERE in the flamin' thick of thick of things,
With Death across the way, 'n' traps
What little Fritz the German
flings
Explodin' in yer lunch pe'aps,
It ain't all glory for a bloke',
It ain't all corfee 'ot and stoo,
Nor wavin' banners in the smoke,
Or
practisin' the bay'net stroke--
We has our little troubles, too!
Here's Trigger Ribb bin seein' red
'N' raisin' Cain because he had,
Back in the caverns iv his 'ead,
A 'oller tooth run ravin' mad.
Pore Trigger up 'n' down the trench
Was jiggin' like a blithered loan,
'N' every time she give a wrench

You orter seen the beggar blench,
You orter 'eard him play a toon.
The sullen shells was pawin' blind,
A-feelin' for us grim as sin,
While now 'n' then we'd likely find
A dizzy bomb come limpin' in.
But Trigger simply let 'er sizz.
He 'ardly begged to be excused.
This was no damn concern of his.

He twined a muffler round his phiz,
'N'