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Shall tremble in their deep dug-outs to hear
Across the night those wild untuneful tunes,
And shall beseech their officers and cry,
“Let us retire at once, or else we die.”
Across the night those wild untuneful tunes,
And shall beseech their officers and cry,
“Let us retire at once, or else we die.”
But lo, there comes a yet more dreadful day,
When with his pleasant months of Blighty o’er,
The bard shall lift his pack and hie away
To land again upon the Gallic shore,
And set his ribald muse to work anew,
And fresh atrocities shall vex the Huns,
And men shall sing them as they used to do
The while from Bosche to Bosche the whisper runs
Down the whole line from Belgium to Champagne,
“The man who wrote those songs is out again.”
When with his pleasant months of Blighty o’er,
The bard shall lift his pack and hie away
To land again upon the Gallic shore,
And set his ribald muse to work anew,
And fresh atrocities shall vex the Huns,
And men shall sing them as they used to do
The while from Bosche to Bosche the whisper runs
Down the whole line from Belgium to Champagne,
“The man who wrote those songs is out again.”
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