So my joyous Tiadatha Made some frenzied preparations, Got some odds and ends together, Said good-bye to everybody, Said good-bye to Woggs his batman, Trusty Woggs the ever-ready, Wishing he was coming also, Wishing everyone was coming. Started on that blessed journey, On that wonderful adventure, “To proceed on leave to England,” And one grey and misty morning Steamed away from Salonica From Constantinople station With some other lucky blighters. And it didn’t seem to matter That the carriage floor was filthy, That the seats were void of cushions, That the window glass was broken. It was quite enough to know that They were leaving Salonica, Quaint old dirty Salonica, And the mud of Macedonia And the everlasting hillsides, After what seemed countless ages— Quite enough for Tiadatha To see Salonica fading, Growing fainter in the distance. All day long the leave train jolted, All night long it rocked and jolted, Crawling on through Greece to Bralo, Halting only at Larissa. And the R.T.O., Larissa, Very kind and very courteous, Welcomed Tiadatha’s party, Took them over to his billet, Gave them steaming tea at midnight, Like the whitest brand of white man. Then at seven in the morning They detrained at Bralo station, Bleary-eyed, unshaved and grimy. Went by lorry to the Rest Camp, Bathed and shaved and had some breakfast, Felt just like a piece of silver When it’s made to shine with Goddard’s After being badly tarnished. On they went from Bralo Rest Camp, On they went by motor lorry Up the road across the mountains, Up the road that twirled and twisted Like a pirouetting dancer. As they reached the mountain summit, Started downwards to Itea, Very lovely was the picture Spread before my Tiadatha. Rugged hills and deep-cleft valleys, Here and there a golden village, Far below, the olive gardens, And beyond them, blue as turquoise, Lay the sunny Gulf of Corinth. And all Tiadatha’s comrades Murmured “Oh, by Jove, how lovely!” “Take it all,” said Tiadatha, “Take it all and more beside it. I would give you every mountain, Every olive grove and village, And the whole damn Gulf of Corinth, For a glimpse of England’s coastline, For a glimpse of Piccadilly.”