"Strike!" sez 'e. "It sounds like skitin'; but they're singin' while they're fightin';
An' they socks it into Abdul to the toon o' 'Nancy Lee.'
An' I seen a bloke this mornin' wiv 'is arm blown to a rag,
'Ummin' 'Break the Noos to Mother,' w'ile 'e sucked a soothin' fag.
"Now, the British Tommy curses, an' the French does fancy stunts,
An' the Turk 'e 'owls to Aller, an' the Gurkha grins an' grunts;
But our boys is singin', singin', while the blinded shells is flingin'
Mud an' death into the trenches in them 'eavens called the Fronts.
An' I guess their souls keep singin' when they gits the tip to go..."
So I gits it, straight frum Ginger; an' Gawstruth! 'e ort to know.
An' 'is letter gits me thinkin' when I read sich tales as these,
An' I takes a look around me at the paddicks an' the trees;
When I 'ears the thrushes trillin', when I 'ear the magpies fillin'
All the air frum earth to 'eaven wiv their careless melerdies—
It's the sunshine uv the country, caught an' turned to bonzer notes;
It's the sunbeams changed to music pourin' frum a thousand throats.
