The March (To The Tune Of The Mountains Of Morne) Poem by Andrew Wright

Now I was unlucky when the Jerrys caught me,
Where the cliffsof St. Valerie sweep down to the sea.

We'd have fought to the last like a dog for a bone,
But the French surrendered and left us alone,
The French who betrayed us deserted their guns,
And so were caught by the square headed Huns.

We broke all our rifles with tears in our eyes,
For it touches you deeply when your freedom dies,
They drove us together like mules with their packs,
With Tommy guns trained on our bellies and backs.

Now the first day of capture we didn't much care,
But they marched us a fortnight on water and air,
Thousands of soldiers with nothing to eat,
Soon all that was left was the sound of our feet.

We journeyed by water and journeyed by rail,
And landed in Germany half dead from the sail,
Now the first camp we stopped at, I'm truthful to say,
We received the equivalent of one meal a day.

We then went to Shubin, but that was no good,
For there we got spuds in their jackets and mud,
And rather than Shubin, well I'd sooner be,
Where the cliffs of St. Valerie sweep down to the sea.

Now this place called Shubin in a Polish land,
Where along with the spuds we got nothing but sand,
At night when I'm dreaming I still seem to be,
Where the cliffs of St. Valerie sweep down to the sea.

But now we're in Bernau and settled at last,
I'm glad that the marching and starving is past,
But if there is a next time, I'm sure I won't be,
Where the cliffs of St. Valerie sweep down to the sea.