There’s the “fearful roar iv battle,”
        What gets underneath yer ’at,
     Mooin’ like a million cattle
        Each as big as Ararat;
     There’s the red field green ‘n’ slippy
        (And I’m cleaner where I am),
     But the thing that’s got me nippy
        It is jam, jam, jam! 
     Druv us sour it has, ‘n’ dippy,
Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin’
       jam!

     Of the mud that’s in the trenches
        Writers make a solemn fuss;
     For the vermin ‘n’ the stenches
        Little ladies pity us;
     But the yearn that’s honest dinkum,
        ‘N’ the prayer what ain’t a sham
     Is that Fritz may bust ‘n’ sink ’em
        Ships of jam, jam, jam! 
     For we bolt ’em, chew ’em, drink ’em,
Million billion bar’ls of beastly, cloyin’
       clammy jam!

     We are sorry-sick of peaches,
        ‘N’ we’re full right up of plum,
     ‘N’ innards fairly screeches
        When the tins of apple come. 
     Back of Blighty piled in cases,
        Jist as close as they can cram,
     Fillin’ all the open spaces,
        Is the ’jam, jam, jam! 
     Oh, the woe the soldiers face is,
Monday, Sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless
       bogs of jam.

WEEPIN’ WILLIE.

Whey our trooper hit wide water every
     heart was yearin’ back
To the little ’ouse at Coogee or a hut at Bar-
     renjack. 
She was ‘ookin’ up to spike the stars, or rootin’
     in the wave,
An’ me liver turned a hand spring with each
     buck the beggar gave. 
Then we pulls a sick ‘n’ silly smile ‘n’ tips a
     saucy lid,
Crackin’ hardy.  Willie didn’t.  Willie
     snivelled like a kid.

At Gallip’ the steamer dumped us, ‘n’ we got
     right down to work,
Whoopin’ up the hill splendacious, playin’
     tiggie with the Turk. 
When the stinkin’ Abdul hit us we curled
     down upon a stone,
‘N’ we yelled for greater glory, crackin’ ’ardy
     on our own. 
Not so Willie.  He was cursin’, cold ez death
     ‘n’ grey ez steel,
‘N’ the smallest thing that busted made the
     little blighter squeal.

In the bitter day’s that follered, spillin’ life be-
     side the sea,
We would fake a spry expression for the things
     that had to be,
Always dressin’ up the winder, crackin’ ’ardy
     though we felt
Fearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold be-
     neath the belt. 
But his jills would sniff ‘n’ shiver in the mother
     of a fright,
‘N’ go blubberin’ ‘n’ quakin’ out to waller in
     the fight.

In the West we liked the weather, ‘n’ we fat-
     tened in the mud,
Crackin’ ‘ardy, stewed together, rats an’
     slurry men ‘n’ blood. 
Weepin’ Willie wouldn’t have it these