Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/163

 The besoms ! O they smiled to me — an' yet

They couldiia' help it. (Mysel'j I just was thinkin' foo we'd get

They Gairmans skelpit.)

I'm wearied wi' them, for it's aye the same

\Miaiire'er we gang, Oor Captain thinks we've got his een to blame,

But man ! he's wrang ! I winna say he's no as smairt a lad

As ye micht see Atween twa Sawbiths — aye, he's no sae bad.

But he's no me !

Weel, let the limmers bide ; their bonnie lips

Are fine an' reid, But me an' Weel urn's got to get to grips

Afore we're deid, An' gin he thinks he hasna' met his match

He'll sune be wiser — Here's to mysel' ! Here's to the auld Black Watch I

An' damn the Kaiser !

— Violet Jacob.

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