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?
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.
Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts
Kicking a ball along,
Set in a square of leather-lunged sports
Twenty-two thousand strong,
Big bully Belgium,
Breathing blood and flame,
Crafty as a serpent
In a cunning game,
She was a pretty, nicely mannered mare,
The children's pet, the master's pride and care,
Until a man in khaki came one day,
Looked at her teeth, and hurried her away.
Now, Angelina, put it down.
Let me entreat you not to smoke it;
You dread your Edwin's lightest frown,
Or so you say well, don't provoke it.
I. THE COMMAND
To his crack army corps, 'twas the Kaiser who spoke :
By Bavarians bold must the British be broke.
The call came in the stormy night,
Beneath a stranger's sky.
The soldier of a life-long fight,
Still fighting, went to die.