The Little Piou-piou

Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau,

And some of us slinked in the slum;

But now we are here with a song and a cheer

To serve at the sign of the drum.

They put us in trousers of scarlet,

In big sloppy ulsters of blue;

In boots that are flat, a box of a hat,

And they call us the little piou-piou,

Piou-piou,

The laughing and quaffing piou-piou,

The swinging and singing piou-piou;

And so with a rattle we march to the battle,

The weary but cheery piou-piou.

They drive us head-on for the slaughter;

We have n't got much of a chance;

The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad

To battle and die for La France.

For some must be killed, that is certain;

There's only one's duty to do;

So we leap to the fray in the glorious way

They expect of the little piou-piou.

En avant!

The way of the gallant piou-piou,

The dashing and smashing piou-piou;

The way grim and gory that leads us to glory

Is the way of the little piou-piou.

To-day you would scarce recognise us,

Such veterans war-wise are we;

So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred,

So “crummy”, yet gay as can be.

We've finished with trousers of scarlet,

They're giving us breeches of blue,

With a helmet instead of a cap on our head,

Yet still we're the little piou-piou.

Nous les aurons!

The jesting, unresting piou-piou;

The cheering, unfearing piou-piou;

The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil;

The dying, defying piou-piou.