And rested sickish, with a thirst--
The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard ...
Then someone offers me a drink,
What poets call "the cooling draft,"
And seeing 'im I done a think:
"_Blighty_," I thinks--and laughed.

I'm not a soldier natural,
No more than most of us to-day;
I runs a business with a pal
(Meaning the Missis) Fulham way;
Greengrocery--the cabbages
And fruit and things I take meself,
And she has daffs and crocuses
A-smiling on a shelf.

"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows;
'E talks of punctured damn-the-things.
It's me for Blighty. Down I goes;
I ain't a singer, but I sings;
"Oh, 'oo goes 'ome?" I sort of 'ums;
"Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?"
And by-and-by Southampton comes--
"Blighty!" I says and roars.

I s'pose I thort I done my bit;
I s'pose I thort the War would stop;
I saw myself a-getting fit
With Missis at the little shop;
The same like as it used to be,