Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh-- But I wouldn't just swear to that. And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen--Fleurette. And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him! So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread. For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss." Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes. And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. Then she kissed my burning lips With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear Fall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak. And so she went sadly away, And I knew that my eyes were wet. Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay? God bless her, that little Fleurette! Funk When your marrer bone seems 'oller, And you're glad you ain't no taller, And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; When your skin creeps like a pullet's, And you're duckin' all the bullets, And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; When your legs seem made of jelly, And you're squeamish in the belly, And you want to turn about and do a bunk: For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! Don't let your mateys know it-- You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. Of course there's no denyin' That it ain't so easy tryin' To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, When the 'ole world rips asunder, And you sees yer pal go under, As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; I admit it's 'ard contrivin' When you 'ears the shells arrivin', To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; But, my lad, you've got to do it, And your God will see you through it, For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. So stand up, son; look gritty, And just 'um a lively ditty, And only be afraid to be afraid; Just 'old yer rifle steady, And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, For that's the way good soldier-men is made. And if you 'as to die, As it sometimes 'appens, why, Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; A-doin' of yer bit, And so--to 'ell with it, There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. Our Hero