Lo! the poor Sergeant in a shrunken shirt,
His manly limbs exposed to morning's dew,
His massive feet all paddling in the dirt--
Such sights should move the heart of even you.

The worthy Corporal, sage in looks and speeches,
Holds up his trousers with a trembling hand;
Lucky for him he slumbered in his breeches--
The most clothed man of all our shivering band.

The wretched gunners cluster on the gun,
Clasping the clammy breech and slippery shells;
If 'tis a joke they do not see the fun
And damn you to the worst of DANTE'S hells.

And Sub-Lieutenant Blank, that martial man,
Shows his pyjamas to a startled world,
And shivers in the foremost of our van
The while our H.E. shells are upwards hurled.

You vanish, not ten centimes worth the worse
For all our noise, so far as we can tell;
The blest "Stand easy" comes; with many a curse
We hurry to the tents named after Bell.[1]

In two brief hours we must arise and shine!
O willow-waly! Would I were at home
Where leisurely I breakfasted at nine
And warm and fed went officeward to roam!