by Bransby WithamsSpotty was my chum, he was, a gingerheaded bloke, An everlasting
gasbag and as stubborn as a moke.
He give us all the 'ump he did before it come to war,
By sportin' all 'is bits of French, what noone asked him for.
He says to me 'old son,' he says, 'you won't have 'arf a chance,
When I gets in conversation with them demerselles of France.'
1 says to 'im'
you close yer face,' he says, 'all right bong swore,
Don't 'urt yourself mong sher amy,' then 'so long! oh revore!'
When we got our marching orders you can bet we wasn't slow,
Asinging, 'Tipperary! it's a long, long way to go.'
On the transport 'ow he swanked it, with 'is parley vooing airs,
Till I nearly knocked 'is 'ead off cos he said I'd 'mal de mares'.
When we landed, what a beano, how them Frenchies laughed and cried,
And I see old Spotty swelling fit to bust 'iself with pride,
He was blowin' of 'em kisses and was singing' Vive la France,'
Till the Sergeant-Major copped 'im, then he says, 'Kel mauvay chance!'
But we didn't
get no waitin', where we went nobody knows,
And it wasn't like the fighting that you sees in picture shows.
We 'ad days of 'ell together, till they told us to retire,
And then Spotty's flow of language set the watercarts on fire.
Im and me was very lucky, for two-thirds of us was dead,
With their greasy 'black Marias' and the shrapnel overhead.
And every time they missed
us when the fire was murderous 'ot,
Old Spotty says 'Honcore! Honcore! 'that's French for 'Rotten shot.'
And then at last there came the time, we got 'em on the go,
And 'im and me was fightin' at a little
place called Mo (Meaux)
Alying down together in a 'ole dug with our 'ands,
For you gets it quick and sudden if you moves about or stands,
We was sharing 'arf a fag we was, Yus! turn and turn about,
When I felt 'im move towards me, and he ses,'Oh mate I'm out.'
'Is eyes they couldn't see me - they never will no more,
But 'is twisted mouth it whispered, 'So long matey, Oh Revore!'
