The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The four-point-seven supplied the bass --
You'd think the devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling near
Observed his most supine behaviour,
And crept towards him, `Hey! what cheer?
Buck up,' said he, `I've come to save yer.
`You get up on my shoulders, mate,
And if we live beyond the firing,
I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,
Because our blokes is all retiring.
`It's fifty pounds a year,' says he,
`I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.'
`No,' says the wounded man, `not me,
I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.
`I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;
But if you lift me off the ground,
It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'
So back towards the firing line
Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh!
Remarking `What a selfish swine!
He might have let me be a hero.'
Fed Up
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,
A-drawing fire from Koppies -- well, I'm fair fed up.
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