Classic Poem

Downward slopes the wild red sun.
We lie around a waiting gun;
Soon we shall load and fire and load.
But, hark! a sound beats down the road.

" 'Ello! wot's up? " " Let's 'ave a look! "
" Come on, Ginger, drop that book! "
" Wot an 'ell of bloody noise! "
" It's the Yorks and Lancs, meboys! "

So we crowd: hear, watch them come —
One man drubbing on a drum,
A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,
Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing. . . .

And above their rhythmic feet
A whirl of shrilling loud and sweet,
Round mouths whistling in unison;
Shouts: " 'O's goin' to out the 'Un?

" Back us up, mates! " " Gawd, we will! "
" 'Eave them shells at Kaiser Bill! "
" Art from Lancashire, melad? "
" Gi' 'en a cheer, boys; make 'en glad. "

" 'Ip 'urrah! " " Give Fritz the chuck. "
" Good ol' bloody Yorks! " " Good-luck! "
" Cheer! "
I cannot cheer or speak
Lest my voice, my heart must break.