_The Old 'Un (surveying recently called-up warrior)._ "WELL, JARGE, YOU'M
STILL TURR'BLE FAT, BUT THE ARMY DO ZEEM TO 'AVE REARRANGED IT, LIKE."]
* * * * *
GOLD BRAID.
Same old crossing, same old boat,
Same old dust round Rouen way,
Same old narsty one-franc note,
Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play;"
Same old scramble up the line,
Same old 'orse-box, same old stror,
Same old weather, wet or fine,
Same old blooming War.
_Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,_
_It's just as it used to be, every bit;_
_Same old whistle and same old bang,_
_And me to stay 'ere till I'm 'it._
'Twas up by Loos I got me first;
I just dropped gently, crawled a yard
And rested sickish, with a thirst--
The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard ...
Then someone offers me a drink,
What poets call "the cooling draft,"
And seeing 'im I done a think:
"_Blighty_," I thinks--and laughed.
I'm not a soldier natural,
No more than most of us to-day;
I runs a business with a pal
(Meaning the Missis) Fulham way;
Greengrocery--the cabbages
And fruit and things I take meself,
And she has daffs and crocuses
A-smiling on a shelf.
"Blighty," I thinks.
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