A Song of the Sandbags

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

( The cove be'ind the sandbags ai n't a death-or-glory cuss ).

And though I strafes‘ em good and‘ ard I does n't‘ ate the Boche,

I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.

I guess they loves their‘ omes and kids as much as you or me;

And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;

And if we'd‘ appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,

We'd be out there with‘ Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

I wonder, Bill, if‘ Ans and Fritz is wonderin’ like me

Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for?

‘ E thinks‘ e's right ( of course‘ e ai n't ) but this we both agree,

If them as made it‘ ad to fight, there would n't be no war.

If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;

If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for‘ em like‘ ell;

If them as slings their pot of ink just‘ ad to sling their blood:

By Crust! I'm thinkin’ there‘ ud be another tale to tell.

They talks o’ England's glory and a -‘ oldin’ of our trade,

Of Empire and‘ igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;

But if it's for the likes o’ that that bloody war is made,

Then wot I say is: Empire and‘ igh destiny be damned!

There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:

That's self-defence, for‘ earth and‘ ome, and them that bears our name;

And that's wot I'm a-doin’ by the sandbags‘ ere to-night....

But Fritz out there will tell you‘ e's a-doin’ of the same.