We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and
   Siloam is in view. 
 By my ’alidom from Agra we will send the
    Faithful reelin’! 
Those old-timers botched the contract, but we
   mean to put it through. 
 Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,
    Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin’.

We ‘are wipin’ up Jerus’lem; we were ready
   with a hose
 Spoutin’ lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet
    you can rely on;
And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses,
   Offelbloom ‘n’ those
 Can all pack their bettin’ bags, and come
   right home again to Zion.

PEACE, BLESSED PEACE.

Here in the flamin’ thick of thick of things,
   With Death across the way, ‘n’ traps
What little Fritz the German flings
   Explodin’ in yer lunch pe’aps,
It ain’t all glory for a bloke’,
   It ain’t all corfee ’ot and stoo,
Nor wavin’ banners in the smoke,
Or practisin’ the bay’net stroke—­
   We has our little troubles, too!

Here’s Trigger Ribb bin seein’ red
   ‘N’ raisin’ Cain because he had,
Back in the caverns iv his ’ead,
   A ‘oller tooth run ravin’ mad. 
Pore Trigger up ‘n’ down the trench
   Was jiggin’ like a blithered loan,
‘N’ every time she give a wrench
You orter seen the beggar blench,
   You orter ’eard him play a toon.

The sullen shells was pawin’ blind,
   A-feelin’ for us grim as sin,
While now ‘n’ then we’d likely find
   A dizzy bomb come limpin’ in. 
But Trigger simply let ’er sizz. 
   He ’ardly begged to be excused. 
This was no damn concern of his. 
He twined a muffler round his phiz,
   ‘N’ fearful was the words he used.

Lest we be getting’ cock-a-whoop
   Ole ’Ans tries out his box of tricks. 
His bullets all around the coop
  Is peckin’ like a million chicks. 
But Trigger when they barks his snout
   Don’t sniff at it.  He won’t confess
They’re on the earth—­ignores the clout,
‘N’ makes the same old sung about
   His brimmin’ mug of bitterness.

They raided us there in the mud
   One day afore the dead sun rose. 
Me oath, the mess of stuff and blood
   Would give a slaughterman the joes! 
And when the scrap is past and done,
   Where’s Trigger Ribb?  The noble youth
Has got his bay’net in a Hun,
While down his cheeks the salt tears run. 
   Sez he to me “Gorbli’—­this tooth!”

A shell hoist Trigger in a tree. 
   We found him motherin’ his jor. 
“If this ache’s goin’ on,” sez he,
   “So ’elp me, it’ll spoil the war!”
Five collared Trigger on his perch,
   They wired his molar to a bough,
Then give the anguished one a lurch,
‘N’ down he pitches.  From that birch
   His riddled tooth is hangin’ now.

This afternoon it’s merry ’ell;
   Grenades is comin’ by the peck;
A big gun times us true ’n well,
   And, oh! we gets it in the neck. 
They lick out flames hat reach a mile,
   The drip of lead will never cease. 
But Trigger’s pottin’ all the while;
He sports a fond ‘n’ foolish smile-
   “Thank Gord,” he sez, “a bit of peace!”