Bill's Grave

I'm gatherin’ flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;

I've sneaked away from the billet,‘ cause Jim would n't understand;

‘ E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made‘ im ill,

To see me‘ ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me‘ and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o’ the best;

We‘ listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;

Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took‘ is departure West,

So sudden‘ e‘ ad n't a minit to say good-bye to‘ is chums.

And they took me to where‘ e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,

And, thinks I,‘ ow Bill would be tickled, bein’ so soft and queer,

If I gathered a bunch o’ them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round

Like a kind of a bloody headpiece... and that's the reason I'm‘ ere.

But not for the love of glory I would n't‘ ave Jim to know.

‘ E'd call me a slobberin’ Cissy, and larf till‘ is sides was sore;

I'd‘ ave larfed at meself too, it is n't so long ago;

But some'ow it changes a feller,‘ avin’ a taste o’ war.

It‘ elps a man to be‘ elpful, to know wot‘ is pals is worth

( Them golden poppies is blazin’ like lamps some fairy‘ as lit );

I'm fond o’ them big white dysies.... Now Jim's o’ the salt o’ the earth;

But‘ e‘ as got a tongue wot's a terror, and‘ e ai n't sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot's‘ idin’ so shylike among the corn.

Wo n't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker‘ n thieves, us three.

Why!‘ Oo's that singin’ so‘ earty? JIM! And as sure as I'm born

‘ E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin’ flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches‘ im for a while,

Then I says: “Wot‘ o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?”

And‘ e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and‘ e says with a sheepish smile:

“She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay.”

So‘ e goes away in a‘ urry, and I wishes‘ im best o’ luck,

And I picks up me bunch o’ wild-flowers, and the light's gettin’ sorto dim,

When I makes me way to the boneyard, and... I stares like a man wot's stuck,

For wot do I see? BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM.

Of course I wo n't never tell‘ im, bein’ a tactical lad;

And Jim parley-voos to the widder: “Trez beans, lamoor; compree?”

Oh,‘ e'd die of shame if‘ e knew I knew; but say! wo n't Bill be glad

When‘ e stares through the bleedin’ clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?