Rhymes of a Red Cross Man Part 8

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?

I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.

'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!

I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.

I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, A pint o' Ba.s.s in Blighty in the mawnin'.

I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; I've fought in b.l.o.o.d.y battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.

Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.

Cocotte

When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; And that was I; oh, it's seven years now (Some water's run down the Seine since then), And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, And I've almost taken the measure of men.

Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, Artist and poet, and almost a boy.

And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, And him I adored with a wonderful joy.

If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, How we'd have laughed in a garret gay!

But he was rich, and in radiant plenty We lived in a villa at Viroflay.

Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; Then came the call, and he went away; All that he had in the world he left me, With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay.

Then came the news and the tragic story: My hero, my splendid lover was dead, Sword in hand on the field of glory, And he died with my name on his lips, they said.

So here am I in my widow's mourning, The weeds I've really no right to wear; And women fix me with eyes of scorning, Call me "cocotte", but I do not care.

And men look at me with eyes that borrow The brightness of love, but I turn away; Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, In my little villa at Viroflay.

And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', And they say that pity from love's not far; Let me tell you all: last week in the city I took the metro at Saint Lazare; And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, And when there entered at Chateaudun Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, I eagerly gave my seat to one.

You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, But sadder a sight you will rarely find; One had a leg off and walked on crutches, The other, a bit of a boy, was blind.

And they both sat down, and the lad was trying To grope his way as a blind man tries; And half of the women around were crying, And some of the men had tears in their eyes.

How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging Just like a child to his crippled chum.

But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing Came to my heart for a year so dumb, Then I knew that at three-and-twenty There is wonderful work to be done, Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, Peace and light and love to be won.

Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given To one who will live in the dark alway!

To love and to serve--'twould make life Heaven Here in my villa at Viroflay.

So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder Why to-day I am so elate... .

Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate.

My Bay'nit

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war.

For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly Part of me outfit every time.

Left, right, Hans and Fritz!

Goose step, keep up yer mits!

Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!

Part of me outfit every time.

At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; I've used it to open a bully beef can; For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; For any old thing but for stickin' a man.

'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime,"

And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!

Part of me outfit every time.

Lor, yus; _DON'T_ they look glad?

Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!

Oh my, always the syme!

Part of me outfit every time.

I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; I'm fairly down-'earted--'ow _CAN_ yer explain it?

I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance.

As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; And I uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- Part of me outfit every time.

Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!

'Ere, Fritz, sample a f.a.g!

Oh my, ain't it a gyme!

Part of me outfit every time.

Carry On!

It's easy to fight when everything's right, And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; It's easy to cheer when victory's near, And wallow in fields that are gory.

It's a different song when everything's wrong, When you're feeling infernally mortal; When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!

There isn't much punch in your blow.

You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; You're muddy and b.l.o.o.d.y, but never you mind.

Carry on! Carry on!

You haven't the ghost of a show.

It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life It's easy to fight when you're winning; It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, When the dawn of success is beginning.

But the man who can meet despair and defeat With a cheer, there's the man of G.o.d's choosing; The man who can fight to Heaven's own height Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!