Story

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no enthusiastic tosh

(The bay be'ind the sandbags ain't a demise or-greatness cuss).

Furthermore, however I strafes them great and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,

I figure they're generally average, only the same as the majority of us.

I figure they adores their 'omes and children as much as you or me;

Also, simply the same as you or me they'd preferably shake than battle;

What's more, on the off chance that we'd 'appened to be conceived at Berlin-on-the-Spree,

We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead beyond any doubt that we was correct.

A-standin' up to the sandbags

It's amusing the contemplations wot come;

Starin' into the dimness,

'Earin' the projectiles 'um;

(Punch! Zip! Ping! Tear!

'ark 'ow the projectiles 'um!)

A-leanin' against the sandbags

Wiv me rifle under me ear,

Goodness, I've 'advertisement more musings on a sentry-go

Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I ponder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me

Wot's at its base all? Wot all the butcher's for?

'E believes 'e's ideal (obviously 'e ain't) yet this we both concur,

On the off chance that them as made it 'advertisement to battle, there wouldn't be no war.

On the off chance that them as lies in plume beds while we kips in the mud;

In the event that them as makes their fortoons while we battles for them like 'ell;

In the event that them as slings their pot of ink only 'promotion to sling their blood:

By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another story to tell.

Shiverin' up to the sandbags,

With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,

Don't it appear to be amusing the things you think

'Ere in the firin' line:

(Whee! Whut! Ziz! Zut!

Master! 'ow the projectiles cry!)

Hunkerin' down when a star-shell

Splits in a sputter of light,

You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags

Most any old fashioned o' night.

They talks o' England's transcendence and an 'oldin' of our exchange,

Of Empire and 'igh predetermination until the point that we're reasonable flim-flammed;

Be that as it may, if it's for the preferences o' that that ridiculous war is made,

At that point wot I say is: Empire and 'igh fate be condemned!

There's just a single decent motivation, Bill, for poor blokes like us to battle:

That is self-protection, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;

What's more, that is wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . .

In any case, Fritz out there will let you know 'e's a-doin' of the same.

Starin' over the sandbags,

Tired of the 'ole damn thing;

Firin' to keep meself conscious,

'Earin' the slugs sing.

(Murmur! Twang! Tsing! Ache!

Saucy the slugs sing.)

Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags

Of a day when war will stop,

Whenever 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me

Will ring our mugs in clique,

Also, the Brotherhood of Labor will be

The Brotherhood of Peace.