Saturday, December 1, 2007

Do Yer Bit

From Bill-Jim in the trenches to plain Bill at home

When you’ve shouted “Tipperary” till yer
Thoats’s as dry as chips
And you’ve chorused “save the King” to
Beat the band
When yer’ve raised yer brimming’ bumper in yer
Toastin’ to yer lips
And downed yer glass with no uncertain
‘As if ever dawned upon yer that it’s deeds not
words we want,
And its nearly time yer took yer fighting
For we’re out for keeps for freedom, and it ain’t
No pleasure jaunt,
And its nearly time yer did yer little bit.

When yer fling yer adulation to the players “on
The ball”
Who are battlin’ for the small elusive sphere,
When yer laud yer fancy player in a wild
Ecstatic call
And the roar come from the grand-stand tier
On tier,
Do you know the game we’re playing is the
Sternest ever played,
And our side in sweat and blood and tears are knit,
And our ranks are thinned out daily by the
Repaers sharpened blade—
Cbber Bill, its time yer did yer little bit.

You who play in comfort round a petti-
Coated hem
And sparkling eyes that hold yer from the front,
Work it out as what might ‘appen to the old
Folk and to them
If the boys had ever borne the battle’s
Yes it’s worse than death or murder is the
Methods of the Hun,
On his Kultur all the world has paused t
If yer love yer girl and old folks, stir yer stumps
And get a gun
And come out here and do yer little bit

Can yer revel in the freedom that our blood is
Flowin’ for ?
It’s like a patch of ‘ell when there’s a scrap
Can yer stick it out forgettin’ all yer cobbers at
The war
And never think you ought to fill a gap ?
Say, its nearly time yer chucked it, roused yer
Sleepin’ manhood’s flame,
Got yer military pack and shouldered it ;
Got en route for france (or elsewhee), thus in doing play the game,
And once out here we know you’ll do your bit.

We’r not growlin’ or complainin’, though it’s
Dreary, weary work,
And death lurks in the sea and sky and air ;
We ‘ave a good ‘alf Nelson on the stubborn
Fightin’ Turk
And we’re needin’ you to help us keep it there,
For it takes us all to hold him in strangulation
The moral is we want more men to wit—
He’s a mighty slippy josser, and before our
Fingers slip
Come out here, old son, and do your little bit

ANZAC, August 1915

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