Saturday 18 December 1915 - The Song of the Trench

THE SONG OF THE TRENCH

 

Lieut Lindsay Hamilton encloses with his last letter the copy of the poem, “The Song of the Trench” which he is careful to explain he did not compose himself; it was written by a lance-corpl. in his company. We agree with Lieut. Hamilton that it is pretty good and reproduce it:

 

This is the song of the blooming trench;

It’s sung by us and it’s sung by the French;

It’s probably sung by the German Huns,

But it isn’t all beer and skittles and buns

It’s a song of water and mud and slime,

And keeping your eyes skinned all the time.

Though the putrid “bully” may kick up a stench,

Remember you’ve got to stick to your trench.

 

You play while it’s dark and work while it’s light,

And there’s a listening post at night.

Though you’re soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone,

Though your hands are like ice and your feet like stone;

Though your watch is long and your rest is brief,

And you fervently pray for the next relief,

Though the wind may howl and the rain may drench,

Remember you’ve got to stick to your trench.

 

Perhaps a bullet may find its mark,

And then there’s a funeral after dark;

And you say as you lay beneath the sod,

“Another good man has gone to his God,”

Behind the trench in the open ground

There’s a little cross and a little mound;

And if at your heart-strings you feel a wrench

Remember he died for his blooming trench.

 

There’s a rush and a clash and they’re at your wire,

And you open the hell of a rapid fire;

And Maxims rattle and rifles flash,

And the bombs explode with a sickening crash.

You give them lead and you give them steel,

Till at last they waver and turn and reel;

And you’ve done your job – there was never a blench,

You’ve given them socks and saved your trench.

 

The daylight breaks on the rain-soaked plain,

For some it will never break again;

And you thank your God as you’re standing to,

You’d your bayonet clean and your bolt worked true.

For your comrade’s rifle has jammed and stuck,

And he’s lying there with his brains in a muck.

So love your gun as you would your wench,

And still save your life in your blooming trench.