And at times he licked his dead friend's face and at times he tried to bark,
Till the listening sentry heard the sound, and when the daylight shone
He looked abroad and cried, "_Bon Guieu! C'est le poilu de Carcassonne!_"

So the dead man's _copains_ kept the dog on the strength of the company.
And whoever went short it was not the pup, though a greedy pup was he;
They gave him their choicest bits of _sinje_ and drops of _pinard_ too;
He was warm and safe when he crept beneath a cloak of horizon-blue;
They clipped fresh _brisques_ in his rough white coat as the weary months
dragged on,
And all the sector knows him now as _le Poilu de Carcassonne_.

And in return he keeps their hearts from that haunting foe, _l'ennui_;
He's their plaything, friend, and sentry too, and a lover of devilry;
He helps them to hunt out rats or Boches; he burrows and sniffs for mines,
And he growls when the murderous shrapnel flies screaming above the lines;
His little black nose is a-quiver with glee whenever a raid is on,
And they say with pride, "_C'est la guerre elle-même, notre Poilu de
Carcassonne!_"

There was none more glad when they went to rest in their billet, a
ruined shack,
But when they returned to the front-line trench he was just as pleased
to be back;
He's the spirit of fun itself, and so when other men feel blue,
His friends remark, "_Le cafard, quoi? On l'connait pas chez nous!_"
So when you drink to the valiant French and the glorious fights they've won
Just raise your glass to a little white dog that came from Carcassonne.

* * * * *