MY BROTHER ON THE CLYDE..

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Issue 1314, 1 July 1915, Page 2

MY BROTHER ON THE CLYDE..

(Mr. Thomas Atkins Soliloquises.) By Dick Richards. I’ve chucked away me bay’nit an’ I’m slingin’ down me gun. I’m fed up with the business, I am; I’m fairly done. I’ve tried to work it out all right. so help me Gawd I’ve tried; Wot’s put the kibosh on it is my brother on the Clyde. ’E’s workin’ in a fact’ry an’ gits ten bob a day. An’ now ’e’s downed ’is tools, ’e says an’ wants a bit more pay. ’E writes an’ says these busy times is jist ’is bloomin’ chance. So I’ve downed tools these busy times—“somew'ere out ’ere in France.” Tuppence more, each bloomin’ hour is wot ’o says ’e'l,l git. An’ we on one-an’-two a day! Wot-lie! It’s time to quit. It’s jist the opportoonity. so can’t I be as wide As ’im wot wrote this letter ’ere. my brother on the Clyde? Lusj times e talks about! So help me, male, it's funny! Ed stop the guns from barkin' for a bit ’o lousy money. H’s busy limes ’e’d 'are all right if once ’e lets us down — A-diggin' out ’is fam’l.y from the ruins of ’is town. 1 v<- chucked away me bay’nit an' I’m slingin’ down me gun: I wo can play that bloomin’ game—an’ in comes Mister Hun. Then down shuts all the fact’ries an' workshops far and wide. An’ out o’ work goes millions—an' my brother . ;J n the Clyde. 1 don’t mind all the lightin’, or the trenches, or the mud. Or th<- bitter cola at night-time, wot seems ter freeze yer blood. Wot’s made me sick an’ tired, though, is maitin’ all this fuss, Fer tuppence more an lion:-. Hem—an" not a rap for us! I wonder if them chaps at ’erne could ever dream Of wot things really are like ’ore, aw’ puffs yerself with pride. I’d like to send a dream to ’im—my brother on the Clyde. The guns are three mile back of us; we’ve got advance position. They’re not a bloomin’ bit of good—they’ve got. no ammunition. The German knows its right enough, an’ then they’re four to one. An’ their shells is piled sky-’iglv at ev’ry bloomin’ gun. They’re cornin’ on in thousands, an’ down we go like dogs. An’ them guns at the back of us jist useless iron logs. You strikers struck the bloomin’ chain with w’ich our ’ands is tied! 1 think ’e’d wake up then, ’e would—my brother on the Clyde. I’ve picked me ole gun up again, me bit of iron’ too; I’m jist a common soldier, so I’ve got to see it through. An’ if they lets us down at ’ome, an' if e’ reads I died, Will ’e know ’e ’elpetl to kill me—my brother on the Clyde? —"London Express.”