Downward slopes the wild red sun.
We lie around a waiting gun;
Soon we shall load and fire and load.
But, hark! a sound beats down the road.
“‘ Ello! wot's up?” “Let's‘ ave a look!”
“Come on, Ginger, drop that book!”
“Wot an‘ ell of bloody noise!”
“It's the Yorks and Lancs, meboys!”
So we crowd: hear, watch them come —
One man drubbing on a drum,
A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,
Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing....
And above their rhythmic feet
A whirl of shrilling loud and sweet,
Round mouths whistling in unison;
Shouts: “‘ O's goin’ to out the‘ Un?
“Back us up, mates!” “Gawd, we will!”
“‘ Eave them shells at Kaiser Bill!”
“Art from Lancashire, melad?”
“Gi’‘ en a cheer, boys; make‘ en glad.”
“‘ Ip‘ urrah!” “Give Fritz the chuck.”
“Good ol’ bloody Yorks!” “Good-luck!”
“Cheer!”
I cannot cheer or speak
Lest my voice, my heart must break.