The Sergeant

The Sergeant 'as 'is uses —
I used to doubt of it —
'E did not like the way I washed,
'Is 'ead seemed bulged a bit.
My arms drill seemed to 'urt 'im,
'E'd swear and close 'is eyes;
An' when I 'ad no time to shave
'E would not sympathise.

At 'ome in good old England
When dealin' with recruits
'E seemed to 'ide his better self—
If they 'ad dirty boots.
But in this trench a-sitting
All crouched upon my joints
I do not mind admitting
The Sergeant 'as 'is points.

'E's just been round explainin'
That jumping up to see
If shells is going to burst your way
Is waste of energy.
Shells, though you can't believe it.
Aren't always aimed at you.
But snipers if they see your 'ead
Will put a bullet through.

His words about the Boches
Is also comforting —
'E says as good a shot as me
Could do a dozen in.
An' if it came to baynits,
I'd easy stick a score
The way I fight — I never knew
'E thought me smart before.

"An' anyway," 'e says, "Lad,
Mind this, we're goin' to win:
It's no use thinkin' gloomy thoughts
Whatever fix you're in.
Suppose we did get outed —
England would not forget
And where's the man that is a man
That would not die for that?"

August, 1916.