A Scottish Lament (By S/Sgt. J. Ford) Poem by Andrew Wright

There's a breathless hush in the Lager tonight,
And the sound of the music is spent,
No longer is heard the mouth organ's whine,
Or the squeezebox's solemn lament.

There's a breathless hush in the Lager tonight,
Instead of the noisy fun,
There's usually plenty to keep one awake,
Till eleven, or twelve, or one.

Sometimes the strain of the chanters is heard,
As they whisper their tunes (?) to each other,
One could ALWAYS hear voices in queer sounding talk,
From Jock or Mac Something or Other.

But, - -

There's a breathless hush in the Lager tonight,
For many are mournful and sad,
For Cadder's in tears and McGhee is sick,
And Wankey's undoubtedly bad.

Travers and Reid hang their heads in shame,
For the dastardly work they have done,
And Jolly, Robinson, Wood and Smith,
Have dimmed the Scottish sun.

Sh- -!

There's a breathless hush in the Lager tonight,
Instead of the usual riot,
THE SCOTS LOST BY 5 GOALS TO 1 AT FOOTBALL,
Thank God something is keeping them quiet.

- - - - - - -

I wrote this down the night of the rout, when England won without a doubt, The victors were brilliant, every man, Scotland, I'm afraid, were just an also ran, Perhaps the reason for this slaughtered replay, it took place on the morn after Hogmanay.

With apologies to Sir Henry Newbolt, being an account of the return game between England and Scotland, at Warthelager,1/1/1943. By Sgt J.W. Ford