Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench;Between the crash of shell and shell His laughter rings along the trench;He seems immensely tickled by aProjectile which he calls a "Black Maria."
He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fallAnd heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all.'Tis then he takes a light and airyView of the tedious route to Tipperary.
His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir;And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire;Although his choice and cherished gemsDo not include "The Watch upon the Thames."
He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat,Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith--be sure of that;He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.
