The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back: _It's a long way to Tipperary (Which means "'ome" anywhere); It's a long way to Tipperary (And the things wot make you care). Good-bye, Piccadilly ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); It's a long, long way to Tipperary-- ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)_ Fleurette (The Wounded Canadian Speaks) My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.) But I'll hobble around all right. It isn't that, it's my face. Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place; Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress . . . Mirror enough, I guess. I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay; But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day, The darndest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall--in fine, Wishing that I was dead. . . . What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men? Listen! I'll tell you all. That 'poilu' across the way, With the shrapnel wound in his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! Mon frêre, comme je suis heureuse!" So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw--how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child--Fleurette. Then I turned to the wall again. (I was awfully blue, you see), And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me." So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?" Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.