To My Cold Footed Cobbers.

Huntly Press and District Gazette, Volume 4, 11 February 1916, Page 2

To My Cold Footed Cobbers.

I’m pullin’ orf me colors I’ve chucked me web away, I’m goin’ hack ter Cario Ter draw my bloomin' pay; I’m fed up with bein’ a soldier, So ’elp me bob, I am Chewin’ mouldy biscuits An’ eatin’ bread an’ jam; I’m sick er fightin’ Mr Turk Out on my bleedin’ own. When I thinks of ’em in N.Z—Me cobbers that stayed at ’ome. I’ll bet Vs walkin’ up tber street, ’ls chest puffed out with pride, A skitin* to ’is bloomin’ pals, Of ’ow ’e saved ’is ’ide, And ’eres me in this Blimy trench, I can’t e’en straight me ’ead, For fear a bally sniper *l7ll plug it up with lead. But they ’olds there ’ead up 'igh enough. When up ther street they roam ; But there ain’t no bullets over there— Me cobbers what stayed at ’ome. ’E reads ther “ Mornin’ ’Erald,” An’ sees ther Turks is on the run; t Then he brags about N.Z., An’ wot ’er boys ’ave done; ’E shines before ther barmaids, ’E’s good at beery skitin’, ‘But round the corner of the street, Is where ’e does ’is fightin’, ’ls dugout’s in the tap room, Ther bar’s ’is firin’ zone. An’ ther billiard cue’s ther rifle Of my cobber that stayed at ’ome. ’E’s not a bad shot in the field When ’e gets on a bunny’s track, An’ there ain’t no bloomin’ danger, ’Cos a bunny can’t shoot back; But it’s different ’ere with Mr Turk, Lor’ Lumme ’e ain’t ’arf slick. If .’e gits ’is peepers on yer first. My Oath! 'e’ll make yer sick ; But they won’t risk their bloomin”ide. Why, there ’cart’s a frigid zone, An’ there feet are like bloomin’ icebergs, Me cobbers wot stayed at ’ome. I’m pullin’ off me colours, I’ve chucked me web away, An’ I’m laying down me rifle, 1 don’t care what they say ; If they can shirk their duty And say they won’t go to drill, Weil two can play the same game Then in comes “Kaiser Bill.” I’m not afraid ’er bullets, I’d ’ave died without a groan. But they put the kybosh on it all, Me cobbers wot stayed at ’ome. Now when I ses to mother, “I’ve volunteered ter fight,” She says “Gawd Bless You Laddie ’An bring ye back alright.” But they called me a choc late sojer, An’ a bloomin' six-bob tourist too. And ses, “ You’ll never see the firingline. Not even get a view,” They ses, “You’ll ’ave a fine trip Across the ocean's foam. But still they would’nt come their self Me cobbers wot stayed at 'ome. They’re playin’ golf an’ football. An’ many another game. An’ ’eres mo scrappin’ fer ther flag Ter keep New Zealand’s name. While they waltzes round the ball-room I’m staggerin' under my kit. When they try to pinch me tabby, Whot Oh ! It’s time ter quit. But when the war is over. They will reap just what is sown. Ail’ we’ll brand them bleedin’ cowards Mo cobbers wot stayed at ’ome. I’d like to ’ave them over ’ere. Just to show ’em ’ow things are, For it ain’t all beer an’ skittles. An’ there ain’t no bloomin’ bar; We’re in these bally trenches. Eight days out of ten. We can’t get a bloomin’ spell, ’Cos we 'aven’t got ther men; For Mr Turk is wilv, *E ain’t no laysy drone, , An’ ’e’s twenty tunes as brave As me cobbers wot stayed at ’ome. I’ve picked up me old Lee-Enfield, An' I’ve bucked me web übout. For I’m only a bloomin’ private. An’ I’ve got to see it out; And ’though ’« shames ’is manhood. An' stains his pedigree. Thank God there’s some of us young uns left. An’ we’ll fight until we’re free; But should the foe o’er power us. An’ we gits overthrown, Then they’ll know they elped ter kill Me cobbers wot stayed at ome. (i EO RG E (i REE NW K L 1„