And heavier hangs the weary load,
He never learned them in the choir;
As any Judge upon the Bench;
Do not include 'The Watch upon the Thames.'
He does no talking, through his hat,
Of holy missions; all the same
Is he down-hearted? Not at all.
And yet they brace his dragging limbs
Although his choice and cherished gems
'T is then he takes a light and airy
Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.
His songs are not exactly hymns;
He whistles down the day-long road,
View of the tedious route to Tipperary.
And, when the chilly shadows fall
Facing the guns, he jokes as well
Although they miss the sacred fire;
Projectile which he calls a 'Black Maria.'
Between the crash of shell and shell
He takes to fighting as a game;
His laughter rings along the trench;
He has his faith-be sure of that;
He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,
He seems immensely tickled by a