VERSE AND WORSE

Just behind the Battle Mother,
I am slinking back to you;
For the cannons rattle, Mother,
Makes me feel uncommon blue.

I am not so fond of dying
As my comrades seem to be,
So from missiles round me flying
I am mizzling back to thee,

Chorus:

Mother don't you hear the hissing
Of the bulletses so plain?
I may be counted with the missing
But NEVER, NEVER with the slain.

anon.