I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'. I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'. Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'. Cocotte When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; And that was I; oh, it's seven years now (Some water's run down the Seine since then), And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, And I've almost taken the measure of men. Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, Artist and poet, and almost a boy. And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, And him I adored with a wonderful joy. If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! But he was rich, and in radiant plenty We lived in a villa at Viroflay. Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; Then came the call, and he went away; All that he had in the world he left me, With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. Then came the news and the tragic story: My hero, my splendid lover was dead, Sword in hand on the field of glory, And he died with my name on his lips, they said. So here am I in my widow's mourning, The weeds I've really no right to wear; And women fix me with eyes of scorning, Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. And men look at me with eyes that borrow The brightness of love, but I turn away; Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, In my little villa at Viroflay. And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', And they say that pity from love's not far; Let me tell you all: last week in the city I took the metro at Saint Lazare; And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, And when there entered at Chateaudun Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, I eagerly gave my seat to one.