A SOLDIER'S SONG.

Otago Witness, Issue 3309, 15 August 1917, Page 26

A SOLDIER'S SONG.

There is plenty of talent in our fighting battalions, and in one small village there is a variety show which rejoices the hearts of men fed up with the rather doubtful comedy of trench fighting. The enemy has a nasty habit of dropping shells in villages behind the lines; but the chance of this does not disturb the humour of the funny man who vies with Harry Lauder, nor the rich tenor voice of the private soldier who will sing ycu a ballad —newly written by the claims officer —so tenderly that the hardest old soldier has tears in his eyes, or, at least, something that makes him blow, his nose like a trumpet blast, as when his ions is sung to-night in a little strafed village of France. Cost la guerre. Though your heart bo sad and Weary When from dear ones you must part; Though the tears will come unbidden As you watch the transport start. You must trample on your feelings, You must hide you aching heart: C'est la guerre. Though the bully may be rotten, And the biscuits just as bad. And you've got a sinking feeling That before you never had; What's a little hunger matter? Pull your belt in, don't be sad. C'est la guerre. Though you're wet and tired and hungry, And you're feeling almost dead: And you find your billet roofless And the ground as hard as leaa, Don't begin to v/hine about it. Don't expect a feather bed; C'est la guerre. When at last you hear the whisper " You are ordered to attack." And you know you're going over, And there ain't no turning back. Clinch your teeth and just remember That you're out to do your whack. C'est la guerre. When you're lying in the open With' some shrapnel in your chest, And the bullets whistle round you, And you see your pals going west, Then you'll show the stuff you're made of, You've been tried and done your best. C'est la guerre