"Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n'
all to view.
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n'
me.
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the
Continent is you,
Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is
Sargin' Mollynoo!"

I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line
me shirt.
We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger
up a gun
Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like
a squirt.
We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots
the extra one;
Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n',
be'old, the thing is done!

He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his
gleamin' nut.
"Me dipper's leakin', Mick," sez I; "me
leg is bit in two."
Sez he: "Bleed there in comfort, I'm for
bringin' help, ye scut."
He's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied
German crew.
"Three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "the
rest will carry you."