Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played,
The red crashing game of a fight?
Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?
Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts
Kicking a ball along,
Set in a square of leather-lunged sports
Twenty-two thousand strong,
By bridge and battery, town and trench,
They're fighting with bull-dog pluck;
Not one, from Tommy to General French,
Is down upon his luck.
Swing along together, lads ; we'll have a little song,
Kits won't be so heavy and the way won't be so long.
We're goin' to cook ' the Sossiges,' to cook 'em hot and strong
While we go marching to Germany.
Big bully Belgium,
Breathing blood and flame,
Crafty as a serpent
In a cunning game,