Petty Officer. “OPTICIAN, SIR.”

First Lieutenant. “WHAT HAD WE BETTER GIVE HIM TO DO?”

Petty Officer. “THERE’S THEM PRISMATIC SPOTTING GLASSES, SIR.  THE LEATHER STRAP IS BROKEN OFF THEM.  HE COULD SPLICE IN A PIECE O’ COD LINE.”]

* * * * *

LE POILU DE CARCASSONNE.

  THE poilus of France on the Western Front are brave as brave can be,
  Whether they hail from rich Provence or from ruined Picardie;
  It’s the self-same heart from the lazy Loire and the busy banks of Seine,
  Undaunted by perpetual mud or cold or gas or pain;
  And all are as gay as men know how whose wealth and friends are gone,
  But the gayest of all is a little white dog that came from Carcassonne.

  He was brought as a pup by a Midi man to a sector along the Aisne,
  But his man laid the wire one pitch-black night and never came back again. 
  The pup stood by with one ear down and the other a question mark,
  And at times he licked his dead friend’s face and at times he tried to bark,
  Till the listening sentry heard the sound, and when the daylight shone
  He looked abroad and cried, “Bon Guieu!  C’est le poilu de Carcassonne!”

So the dead man’s copains kept the dog on the strength of the company.  And whoever went short it was not the pup, though a greedy pup was he; They gave him their choicest bits of sinje and drops of pinard too; He was warm and safe when he crept beneath a cloak of horizon-blue; They clipped fresh brisques in his rough white coat as the weary months dragged on, And all the sector knows him now as le Poilu de Carcassonne.

  And in return he keeps their hearts from that haunting foe, l’ennui;
  He’s their plaything, friend, and sentry too, and a lover of devilry;
  He helps them to hunt out rats or Boches; he burrows and sniffs for mines,
  And he growls when the murderous shrapnel flies screaming above the lines;
  His little black nose is a-quiver with glee whenever a raid is on,
  And they say with pride, “C’est la guerre elle-meme, notre Poilu de
  Carcassonne!”

There was none more glad when they went to rest in their billet, a ruined shack, But when they returned to the front-line trench he was just as pleased to be back; He’s the spirit of fun itself, and so when other men feel blue, His friends remark, “Le cafard, quoi?  On l’connait pas chez nous!” So when you drink to the valiant French and the glorious fights they’ve won Just raise your glass to a little white dog that came from Carcassonne.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

“LOYALTY.”