Oh, judge me wonder!  There’s a scrim that
     follers on a raid. 
I’m roughin’ it all-in with Hans.  He sock
     me such a bat
I slides on somethin’ narsty, ‘n’ me little grave
     is made;
But Molly butts my Hun, ‘n’ leaves no face
     beneath his hat,
‘N’, “’Scuse me, Mister Herr,” sez he, “I have a lien on that!”

He helps me under cover, ‘n’ he ’ands me
     somethin’ wet
(I’ve got a lick or two that leaves me feelin’
     pretty sick). 
“Lor love yeh, ole John Hop,” sez I, “yiv
     buried me in debt.” 
“Don’t minton ut at all,” he sez, ‘n’ eyes
     me arf-a-tick. 
‘N’ back there in the trench I sits, ‘n’ trims
     another brick.

’Tis all this how a month or more; then
     Mollynoo sez he: 
“Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell ‘n’
     all to view. 
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you ‘n’
     me. 
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the
     Continent is you,
Bar one, yeh gougin’ thafe, ‘n’ that is
     Sargin’ Mollynoo!”

I take, with knife ‘n’ pistol, arf a brick to line
     me shirt. 
We creeps a thousan’ yards or so to jigger
     up a gun
Which seven Huns is workin’ on the Irish like
     a squirt. 
We gets across them, me ‘n’ him.  I pots
     the extra one;
Mick chokes his third in comfort, ‘n’,
     be’old, the thing is done!

He stands above me, rakin’ sweat from off his
     gleamin’ nut. 
“Me dipper’s leakin’, Mick,” sez I; “me
     leg is bit in two.” 
Sez he:  “Bleed there in comfort, I’m for
     bringin’ help, ye scut.” 
He’s back in twenty minutes, with a dillied
     German crew. 
“Three’ll carry in the gun,” sez he, “the
     rest will carry you.”

I dunno how he got ’em, but he made them
     barrer me. 
They lugged the gun before him, ‘n’ he
     yarded them like geese. 
Then Mickie s’lutes the Major.  “They’re in
     custody,” sez he,
“Fer conduc’ calculated to provoke a breach
     iv peace,
A-tearin’ iv me uniform, ‘n’ ‘saultin’ the
     po-lice.”

Then down he dumped.  His wounds would
     make a ’arf a column list. 
When hack to front I chucks me bricks ‘n’
     smiles the best I can. 
He grins at me:  “Yer right,” sez he, “Hold
     out yer bla’-guard fist,
I couldn’t fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted
     in me pan. 
This messin’ round wid Germans makes a
     chicken iv a man.”

Jam. 
(A Hymn of Hate).

     What is meant by active service
        ‘Ere where sin is leakin’ loose,
     ‘N’ the oldest ’and’s as nervis
        As a dog-bedevilled goose,
     Has bin writ be every poet
        What can rhyme it worth a dam,
     But the ’orror as we know it
        Is jist jam, jam, jam! 
     Oh, the ’ymn of ’ate we owe it—­
Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary
       jam!