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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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A Song of the Sandbags

Published by Susan on 07/23/2003 (2844 reads)
No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh...

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh
  (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss).
And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,
  I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.
I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me;
  And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;
And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,
  We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

     A-standin' up to the sandbags
       It's funny the thoughts wot come;
     Starin' into the darkness,
       'Earin' the bullets 'um;
(Zing! Zip! Ping! Rip!
       'ark 'ow the bullets 'um!)

     A-leanin' against the sandbags
       Wiv me rifle under me ear,
     Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go
       Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me
  Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for?
'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree,
  If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war.
If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;
  If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell;
If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood:
  By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.

     Shiverin' up to the sandbags,
       With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,
     Don't it seem funny the things you think
       'Ere in the firin' line:
(Whee! Whut! Ziz! Zut!
       Lord! 'ow the bullets whine!)
     Hunkerin' down when a star-shell
       Cracks in a sputter of light,
     You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags
       Most any old time o' night.

They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade,
  Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;
But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made,
  Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned!
There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:
  That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;
And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . .
  But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.

     Starin' over the sandbags,
       Sick of the 'ole damn thing;
     Firin' to keep meself awake,
       'Earin' the bullets sing.
(Hiss! Twang! Tsing! Pang!
       Saucy the bullets sing.)
     Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags
       Of a day when war will cease,
     When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me
       Will clink our mugs in fraternity,
     And the Brotherhood of Labour will be
       The Brotherhood of Peace.

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