("What babies they all are,” said the very young god.)

GOLD BRAID

Same old crossing, same old boat,
  Same old dust round Rouen way,
Same old narsty one-franc note,
  Same old “Mercy, sivvoo play”;
Same old scramble up the line,
  Same old ’orse-box, same old stror,
Same old weather, wet or fine,
Same old blooming War.

Ho Lor, it isn’t a dream,
  It’s just as it used to be, every bit;
Same old whistle and same old bang,
  And me out again to be ’it.

’Twas up by Loos I got me first;
  I just dropped gently, crawled a yard
And rested sickish, with a thirst—­
  The ’eat, I thought, and smoking ’ard.... 
Then someone ’ands me out a drink,
  What poets call “the cooling draft,”
And seeing ’im I done a think: 
  “Blighty," I thinks—­and laughed.

I’m not a soldier nacheral,
  No more than most of us to-day;
I runs a business with a pal
  (Meaning the Missis) Fulham way;
Greengrocery—­the cabbages
  And fruit and things I take meself,
And she has dafts and crocuses
  A-smiling on a shelf.

“Blighty,” I thinks.  The doctor knows;
  ’E talks of punctured damn-the-things. 
It’s me for Blighty.  Down I goes;
  I ain’t a singer, but I sings. 
“Oh, ’oo goes ’ome?” I sort of ’ums;
  “Oh, ’oo’s for dear old England’s shores?”
And by-and-by Southampton comes—­
  “Blighty!” I says, and roars.

I s’pose I thort I done my bit;
  I s’pose I thort the War would stop;
I saw meself a-getting fit
  With Missis at the little shop;
The same like as it used to be,
  The same old markets, same old crowd,
The same old marrers, same old me,
But ’er as proud as proud....

* * * * *

The regiment is where it was,
  I’m in the same old ninth platoon;
New faces most, and keen becos
  They thinks the thing is ending soon;
I ain’t complaining, mind, but still,
  When later on some newish bloke
Stops one and laughs, “A blighty, Bill,”
  I’ll wonder, “Where’s the joke?”

Same old trenches, same old view,
  Same old rats as blooming tame,
Same old dug-outs, nothing new,
  Same old smell, the very same,
Same old bodies out in front,
  Same old strafe from 2 till 4,
Same old scratching, same old ’unt. 
  Same old bloody War.

Ho Lor, it isn’t a dream,
  It’s just as it used to be, every bit;
Same old whistle and same old bang. 
  And me to stay ’ere till I’m ’it.

TOBY

It will save trouble if I say at once that I know nothing about horses.  This will be quite apparent to you, of course, before I have finished, but I don’t want you to suppose that it is not also quite apparent to me.  I have no illusions on the subject; neither, I imagine, has Toby.