Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". The Whistle of Sandy McGraw You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. . . . . . At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. . . . . .