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CONSOLATION

In summer we suffered from dust and from flies,
The flies in our rations, the dust in our eyes,
An' some of our fellows, they dropt in the 'eat,
But the Boche, oh, the Boche, was perspirin'—a treat!


There were times when we longed for a tankard o' beer,
Bein' sick of warm water—our tipple out 'ere,
But our tongues might be furry an' throats like a flue,
Yet it's nothing to wot the fat Boches went through.


Now the winter is 'ere with the wet an' the cold,
An' our rifles an' kit are a sight to be'old,
An' in trenches that's flooded we tumble and splosh,
"Wot cheer?" we remarks. "It's the same for the Boche."


If we're standin' in two foot o' water, you see,
Quite likely the Boches are standin' in three;
An' though the keen frost may be ticklin' our toes,
Oo doubts that the Boches' 'ole bodies is froze?


Are we sleepy or sick or 'arf dead for a meal?
Just think of 'ow underfed Boches must feel!
Are we badly in need of a shave an' a wash?
Consider the 'orrible state of a Boche!


So 'ere's philosophy simple and plain,
Wotever we 'ates in the bloomin' campaign,
'Tis balm to our souls, as we grumble and cuss,
To feel that the Boches are 'atin it wuss.