  The crowd of us were drinking One night at Riez Bailleul, The glasses were a-clinking, The estaminet was full; And loud with song and story And blue with tales and smoke,— We spoke no word of glory, Nor mentioned “foreign yoke.” But yarns of girls in Blighty; Vain, jolly, ugly, fair, Standoffish, foolish, flighty— And O! that we were there! Where never thuds a “Minnie,” But Minnie smiles at you A-meeting in the spinney, With kisses not a few. And of an inn that Johnson Does keep; the “Rising Sun.” His friends him call Jack Johnson, He’s Gloster’s only one. And talk of poachers’ habits (But girls ever and again) Of killing weasels, rabbits, Stoats, pheasants, never men, Although we knew to-morrow Must take us to the line, In beer hid thought and sorrow, In ruddy and white wine. When all had finished drinking, Though still was clear each head, We said no word—went slinking Straight homeward (?), into bed (?). O never lads were merrier Nor straighter nor more fine, Though we were only “Terrier” And only, “Second Line.” O I may get to Blighty, Or hell, without a sign Of all the love that filled me, Leave dumb the love that filled me, The flood of love that filled me For these dear comrades of mine. |
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