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,
I. THE COMMAND
To his crack army corps, 'twas the Kaiser who spoke :
By Bavarians bold must the British be broke.
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.
The call came in the stormy night,
Beneath a stranger's sky.
The soldier of a life-long fight,
Still fighting, went to die.
Who's for the trench-
Are you, my laddie?
Who'll follow French-
Will you, my laddie?
We know that you’re sportsmen, with reason,
At footer and cricket you’re crack;
I haven’t forgotten the season
When we curled up before the “All Blacks.”