| FACING the guns, he jokes as well | |
| As any Judge upon the Bench; | |
| Between the crash of shell and shell | |
| His laughter rings along the trench; | |
| He seems immensely tickled by a | 5 |
| Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria." | |
| |
| He whistles down the day-long road, | |
| And, when the chilly shadows fall | |
| And heavier hangs the weary load, | |
| Is he down-hearted? Not at all. | 10 |
| 'Tis then he takes a light and airy | |
| View of the tedious route to Tipperary. | |
| |
| His songs are not exactly hymns; | |
| He never learned them in the choir; | |
| And yet they brace his dragging limbs | 15 |
| Although they miss the sacred fire; | |
| Although his choice and cherished gems | |
| Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames." | |
| |
| He takes to fighting as a game; | |
| He does no talking, through his hat, | 20 |
| Of holy missions; all the same | |
| He has his faith—be sure of that; | |
| He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, | |
| Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed. | |
