Intro to WW1 Poetry: Trench Poetry & Songs

The Secret

You were askin' 'ow we sticks it,
Sticks this blarsted rain and mud,
'Ow it is we keeps on smilin'
When the place runs red wi' blood.
Since you're askin' I can tell ye,
And I thinks I tells ye true,
But it ain't official, mind ye,
It's a tip twixt me and you.
For the General thinks it's tactics,
And the bloomin' plans 'e makes.
And the C.O. thinks it's trainin',
And the trouble as he takes.
Sergeant-Major says it's drillin',
And 'is straffin' on parade,
Doctor swears it's sanitation,
And some patent stinks 'e's made.
Padre tells us its religion,
And the Spirit of the Lord;
But I ain't got much religion,
And I sticks it still, by Gawd.

Quarters kids us it's the rations,
And the dinners as we gets.
But I knows what keeps us smilin'
It's the Woodbine Cigarettes.
For the daytime seems more dreary,
And the night-time seems to drag
To eternity of darkness,
When ye ave'nt got a fag.
Then the rain seems some'ow wetter,
And the cold cuts twice as keen,
And ye keeps on seein' Boches,
What the Sargint 'asn't seen.
If ole Fritz 'as been and got ye,
And ye 'ave to stick the pain,
If ye 'aven't got a fag on,
Why it 'urts as bad again.
When there ain't no fags to pull at,
Then there's terror in the ranks.
That's the secret - (yes, I'll 'ave one)
Just a fag - and many Tanks.

'Woodbine Willy'

Poems of the First World War: 'Never Such Innocence', ed. Martin Stephen (Everyman, 1995), pp. 49–50

Well?

Our Padre were a solemn bloke,
We called 'im dismal Jim.
It fairly gave ye t' bloomin' creeps,
To sit and 'ark at 'im,
When he were on wi' Judgment Day,
Abaht that great white Throne,
And 'ow each chap would 'ave to stand,
And answer on 'is own.
And if 'e tried to charnce 'is arm,
And 'ide a single sin,
There'd be the angel Gabriel,
Wi' books to do 'im in.
'E 'ad it all writ dahn, 'e said,
And nothin' could be 'id,
'E 'ad it all i' black and white,
And 'E would take no kid.
And every single idle word,
A soldier charnced to say,
'E'd 'ave it all thrown back at 'im,
I' court on Judgment Day.
Well I kep' mindin' Billy Briggs,
A pal o' mine what died.
'E went to 'elp our sergeant Smith,
But as 'e reached 'is side,
There came and bust atween 'is legs,
A big Boche 5.9 pill.
And I picked up 'is corpril's stripes,
That's all there was o' Bill.
I called to mind a stinkin' night
When we was carryin' tea.
We went round there by Limerick Lane,
And Bill was a'ead o' me.
'Twere rainin' 'eavens 'ard, ye know,
And t' boards were thick wi' muck,
And umpteen times we slithered dahn,
And got the dicksee stuck.
Well when we got there by the switch,
A loose board tipped right up,
And Bill, 'e turned a somersault,
And dahn 'e came, and whup!
I've 'eard men blind, I've 'eard 'em cuss
And I've 'eard 'em do it 'ard,
Well 'aven't I 'eard our R.S.M.,
Inspectin' special guard.

But t'other night I dreamed a dream,
And just twixt me and you,
I never dreamed like that afore,
I arf thinks it were true.
I dreamed as I were dead, ye see,
At least as I 'ad died,
For I were very much alive,
Out there on t'other side.
I couldn't see no judgment court,
Nor yet that great white throne,
I couldn't see no record books,
I seemed to stand alone.
I seemed to stand alone, beside
A solemn kind o' sea.
Its waves they got in my inside,
And touched my memory.
And day by day, and year by year,
My life came back to me.
I see'd just what I were, and what
I'd 'ad the charnce to be.
And all the good I might 'a' done,
An' 'adn't stopped to do.
I see'd I'd made an 'ash of it,
And Gawd! but it were true

A throng 'o faces came and went,
Afore me on that shore,
My wife, and Mother, kiddies, pals,
And the face of a London whore.
And some was sweet, and some was sad,
And some put me to shame,
For the dirty things I'd done to 'em,
When I 'adn't played the game.
Then in the silence someone stirred,
Like when a sick man groans,
And a kind o' shivering chill ran through
The marrer ov my bones.
And there before me someone stood,
Just lookin' dahn at me,
And still be'ind 'Im moaned and moaned
That everlasting sea.
I couldn't speak, I felt as though
'E 'ad me by the throat,
'Twere like a drownin' fellah feels,
Last moment 'e's afloat.
And 'E said nowt, 'E just stood still,
For I dunno 'ow long.
It seemed to me like years and years,
But time out there's all wrong.

What was 'E like? You're askin' now.
Can't word it anyway.
'E just were 'Im, that's all I knows.
There's things as words can't say.
It seemed to me as though 'Is face,
Were millions rolled in one.
It never changed yet always changed,
Like the sea beneath the sun.
'Twere all men's face yet no man's face,
And a face no man can see,
And it seemed to say in silent speech,
'Ye did 'em all to me.
'The dirty things ye did to them,
'The filth ye thought was fine,
'Ye did 'em all to me,' it said,
'For all their souls were mine.'
All eyes was in 'Is eyes, - all eyes,
My wife's and a million more.
And once I thought as those two eyes
Were the eyes of the London whore.
And they was sad, - My Gawd 'ow sad,
With tears that seemed to shine,
And quivering bright wi' the speech o' light,
They said, ''Er soul was mine.'
And then at last 'E said one word,
'E just said one word 'Well?'
And I said in a funny voice,
'Please can I go to 'Ell?'
And 'E stood there and looked at me,
And 'E kind o' seemed to grow,
Till 'E shone like the sun above my ead,
And then 'E answered 'No
'You can't, that 'Ell is for the blind,
'And not for those that see.
'You know that you 'ave earned it, lad,
'So you must follow me.
'Follow me on by the paths o' pain,
'Seeking what you 'ave seen,
'Until at last you can build the "Is,"
'Wi' the bricks o' the "Might 'ave been."'
That's what 'E said, as I'm alive,
And that there dream were true.
But what 'E meant, - I don't quite know,
Though I knows what I 'as to do.
I's got to follow what I's seen,
Till this old carcase dies.
For I daren't face the land o' grace,
The sorrow ov those eyes.
There ain't no throne, and there ain't no books,
It's 'Im you've got to see,
It's 'Im, just 'Im, that is the Judge
Of blokes like you and me.
And boys I'd sooner frizzle up,
I' the flames of a burning 'Ell,
Than stand and look into 'Is face,
And 'ear 'Is voice say - 'Well?'

'Woodbine Willy'

Poems of the First World War: 'Never Such Innocence', ed. Martin Stephen (Everyman, 1995), pp. 120–123

War

There's a soul in the Eternal,
Standing stiff before the King.
There's a little English maiden
Sorrowing.
There's a proud and tearless woman,
Seeing pictures in the fire.
There's a broken battered body
On the wire.

'Woodbine Willy'

Poems of the First World War: 'Never Such Innocence', ed. Martin Stephen (Everyman, 1995), p. 278

Although World War I poetry is always associated with the likes of Rosenberg, Owen, and Sassoon, it should be remembered that there was a wealth of other material, more popular to the average soldier, that appeared in such publications as The Wiper's Times, and in the songs from the period.

Poems

From The Somme Times, Monday, 31 July, 1916:

There was a young girl of the Somme,
Who sat on a number five bomb,
She thought 'twas a dud 'un,
But it went off sudden-
Her exit she made with aplomb!

'Shattered Illusions' from The BEF (British Expeditionary Force) Times, Monday, 25 December, 1916:

It may be love that makes the world go round,
Yet with the statement I oft disagree;
It was not love (on that I'll bet a pound)
That, last night, made the world go round for me.

I cannot bring my mind to realise
That love inspired friend Fritz, when he propelled
A Minnie of a most terrific size
In my direction, so, I had him shelled.

Anon.

'Mort Pour La France' from The BEF Times, Thursday, November 1st, 1917:

Many the graves that lie behind the lines,
Scattered like shells upon a blood-stained strand,
Crosses and mounds, that eloquently stand
To mark a spot, that forms some hero's shrine.
And one, that nestles near a shattered pine,
Beside a war-wrecked wall, in barren land,
Is tended, daily, by a woman's hand,
Moistened by tears, that in her bright eyes shine.

But proud she was, and proud she still can be,
Lover and patriot, both, she proudly reads
His epitaph. It dries her tears to know,
That he has purchased immortality:-
"Mort pour la France." He filled his Country's needs,
And though he rests, for France he'd have it so.

Anon.

The Wipers Times

In February, 1916, Captain F. J. Roberts of the 12th Battalion Sherwood Foresters produced the first edition of the trench newspaper The Wipers Times. Often produced in hazardous conditions, at one point only 700 yards from the front line it acted as the voice of the average British soldier, relaying his experiences, grief, and anger during the entire conflict. At times irreverent, at times hysterical, it is perhaps the best insight into the times and the temper of life in the trenches. It ran until December, 1918, adopting such titles as New Church Times, Somme Times, BEF [British Expeditionary Force] Times, and finally Better Times. Apart from poetry and humorous articles, The Wiper's Times also featured several comical advertisements, and music hall parodies.

Extracts from The Wiper's Times

People We Take Our Hats Off To

The person who introduced the order forbidding Company Commanders to go beyond their front line trench.

Correspondence

To the Editor,
Wipers Times

Sir,
As the father of a large family, and having two sons serving in the Tooting Bec Citizens' Brigade, may I draw your attention to the danger from Zeppelins. Cannot our authorities deal with this menace in a more workmanlike way. My boys, who are well versed in military affairs, suggest a high barbed wire entanglement being erected round the British Isles. Surely something can be done:-

Answers to Some of Our Many Correspondents

JOCK. (Zouave Wood). - No, when on patrol work and you hear the words - "Ach Gott! Ich bin gauz fed-up gerworden" - issue from an unknown trench, this does not necessarily signify that you have worked too far over to your left and stumbled into the French lines.

MOTORIST. (Popperhinghe). -Yes, we have had other complaints of the suspected police trap on the Menin Road, and advise caution on the stretch between 'Hell Fire Corner' and the Culvert.

Warning: these songs have not been bowdlerised, i.e. the strong language as used by the soldiers for some of the songs has been retained. If you are offended by such language, it is suggested that you read no further.

NB. there are numerous variations on these songs. Some were taken up by soldiers in later wars and reworded accordingly. See R. Palmer 'What a lovely war!': British Soldiers' Songs (Joseph, 1990). This was also the source for the versions of most of the songs given below.

The Songs

• 'It's a long way to Tipperary'
• 'Bombed last night'
• 'Good-bye- ee'
• 'Never Mind'
• 'Three German Officers crossed the Rhine'
• 'Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire'
• 'I wore a Tunic'
• 'Old Joe Whip'
• 'Hush, here comes a Whizzbang'
• 'When this lousy war is over'
• 'Whiter than the Whitewash'
• 'Oh it's a lovely war!'
• 'The Bells of Hell'
• 'I want to go home'
• 'Far, far from Wipers'
• 'I don't want to join the Army'
• 'We are Fred Karno's army'

'It's a Long Way to Tipperary'

It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know.
Good-bye, Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square.
It's a long long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there.

'Bombed Last Night'

Bombed last night, and bombed the night before.
Going to get bombed tonight if we never get bombed anymore.
When we're bombed, we're scared as we can be.
Can't stop the bombing from old Higher Germany.

They're warning us, they're warning us.
One shell hole for just the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us.
So one of us can fill it all alone.

Gassed last night, and gassed the night before.
Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore.
When we're gassed, we're sick as we can be.
For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me.

They're killing us, they're killing us.
One respirator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast.
So one of us can take it all alone.

'Good-Bye-ee'

Brother Bertie went away, to do his bit the other day.
With a smile on his lips and his lieutenant pips upon his shoulder bright and gay.
As the train moved out he said: 'Remember me to all the girls'
And then he wagged his paw and went away to war shouting out these pathetic words:

'Good-bye-ee, good-bye-ee, wipe the tears, baby dear, from your eye-ee.
Though it's hard to part I know, I'll be tickled to death to go.
Don't cry-ee, don't sigh-ee, there's a silver lining in the sky-ee.
Bonsiour old thing, cheerio chin-chin, napoo, toodle-oo, good-bye- ee.'

[napoo = nothing, all gone.]

'Never Mind'

Tune: Never Mind

If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
He's entitled to a tot but not the bleeding lot
If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind

When old Jerry shells your trench, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
Though the sandbags bust and fly you have only once to die,
If old Jerry shells the trench, never mind

If you get stuck on the wire, never mind
And your face may lose its smile, never mind
Though you're stuck there all the day, they count you dead and stop your pay
If you get stuck on the wire, never mind

If the sergeant says your mad, never mind
P'raps you are a little bit, never mind
Just be calm don't answer back, cause the sergeant stands no slack
So if he says you're mad, well - you are.

Parody of:

Though your heart may ache a while, never mind
Though your face may lose its smile, never mind
For there's sunshine after rain, and the gladness follows pain.
You'll be happy once again, never mind

'Three German Officers Crossed the Rhine'

Tune: 'Mademoiselle from Armentieres'

Three German Officers crossed the Rhine, parlez-vous
Three German Officers crossed the Rhine, parlez-vous
Three German Officers crossed the Rhine
To fuck the women and drink the wine,

(Chorus) Inky-dinky parlez-vous

They came to the door of a wayside Inn, parlez-vous
Pissed on the mat and walked right in, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

'Oh landlord have you a daughter fair?', parlez-vous
'With lily-white tits and golden hair?', parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

'My only daughter's far too young', parlez-vous
'To be fucked by you, you bastard hun', parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

'Oh father dear I'm not too young' parlez-vous
'I've just been fucked by the blacksmith's son', parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

At last they got her on the bed, parlez-vous
And shagged her 'til her cheeks were red, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

They took her down a shady lane, parlez-vous
And shagged her back to life again, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

And then they took her to a bed, parlez-vous
And shagged her til she was nearly dead, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

They shagged her up they shagged her down, parlez-vous
They shagged her all around the town, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

They shagged her in they shagged her out, parlez-vous
They shagged her up her water-spout, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

Now seven months later all was well, parlez-vous
Eight months later she began to swell, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

Nine months later she gave a grunt, parlez-vous
And a little fat Prussian popped out her cunt, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

The fat little Prussian he grew and grew, parlez-vous
He fucked the cat and the donkey too, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

The fat little Prussian he went to hell, parlez-vous
He fucked the devil and his wife as well, parlez-vous
(Repeat)

(Chorus)

'Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire'

If you want to find the lance-jack, I know where he is
I know where he is, I know where he is
If you want to find the lance-jack, I know where he is
He's scrounging round the cookhouse door.
I've seen him, I've seen him
Scrounging round the cookhouse door, I've seen him,
Scrounging round the cookhouse door.

The company sergeant...He's laying on the latrine floor

The quarter master...Miles and miles behind the lines.

The sergeant-major...Thieving all the squaddies' rum.

The buckshee private...Buried in a deep shell hole.

The C.O....Down in a deep dugout.

The brasshats...Drinking claret at Brigade HQ.

The politicians....Drinking brandy at the House of Commons bar.

The whole battalion...Hanging on the old barbed wire.

'I wore a Tunic'

Tune: 'I wore a Tulip'

I wore a tunic, a lousy khaki tunic,
And you wore your civvy clothes.
We fought and bled at Loos
While you were home on the booze
The booze that no one here knows.
Oh you were with the wenches
While we were in the trenches
Facing an angry foe.
Oh you were a-slacking
While we were attacking
The Jerry on the Menin Road.

'Old Joe Whip'

Tune: 'Casey Jones' (Chorus)

Old Joe Whip, mounted on the parapet
Old Joe Whip, a Mills bomb in his hand,
Old Joe Whip, he stopped a blooming whizzbang,
Now he's a bomber in the promised land.

[Whizzbang = light shell, sounded as it came towards you like 'whizz' and then 'bang']

'Hush, Here Comes a Whizzbang'

Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Now you soldiermen get down those stairs,
Down in your dugouts and say your prayers.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang,
And it's making right for you.
And you'll see all the wonders of No-Man's-Land,
If a Whizzbang, hits you.

'When this Lousy War is Over'

Tune: 'What a Friend we have in Jesus'

When this lousy war is over no more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I shall be.
No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.
You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse.

(Repeat first two lines of first verse)
No more NCOs to curse me, no more rotten army stew.
You can tell the old cook-sergeant, to stick his stew right up his flue.

(Repeat first two lines of first verse)
No more sergeants bawling, 'Pick it up' and 'Put it down'
If I meet the ugly bastard I'll kick his arse all over town

'Whiter than the Whitewash'

Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
On the wall, on the wall, On the wall, on the wall,
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

'Oh it's a Lovely War!'

Up to your waist in water, up to your eyes in slush,
using the kind of language that makes the sergeant blush,
Who wouldn't join the army? That's what we all enquire.
Don't we pity the poor civilian sitting by the fire.

(Chorus)
Oh, oh, oh it's a lovely war.
Who wouldn't be a soldier, eh? Oh it's a shame to take the pay.
As soon as reveille has gone we feel just as heavy as lead,
but we never get up till the sergeant brings our breakfast up to bed.
Oh, oh, oh, it's a lovely war.
what do we want with eggs and ham when we've got plum and apple jam?
Form fours. Right turn. How shall we spend the money we earn?
Oh, oh, oh it's a lovely war.

When does a soldier grumble? When does he make a fuss?
No one is more contented in all the world than us.
Oh it's a cushy life, boys, really we love it so:
Once a fellow was sent on leave and simply refused to go.
(Chorus)

Come to the cookhouse door, boys, sniff the lovely stew.
Who is it says the colonel gets better grub than you?
Any complaints this morning? Do we complain? Not we.
What's the matter with lumps of onion floating around the tea?
(Chorus)

'The Bells of Hell'

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling, for you but not for me.
And the little devils have a sing-a-ling-a-ling, for you but not for me.
Oh death where is they sting-a-ling-a-ling, oh grave thy victory?
The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling, for you but not for me.

'I want to go home'

I want to go home, I want to go home.
I don't want to go in the trenches no more,
Where whizzbangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
Take me over the see, where the Alleyman can't get at me.
Oh my, I don't want to die, I want to go home.

I want to go home, I want to go home.
I don't want to visit la Belle France no more,
For oh the Jack Johnsons they make such a roar.
Take me over the sea, where the snipers they can't get at me.
Oh my, I don't want to die, I want to go home.

[Alleyman = German (from Fr. Allemagne)]

[Jack Johnson = heavy shell (from a boxer of the same name)]

'Far, far from Wipers'

Far, far from Wipers I long to be.
Where German snipers can't get at me.
Dark is my dugout, cold are my feet.
Waiting for Whizzbangs to send me to sleep.

[Wipers = Ypres]

'I Don't Want to Join the Army'

Tune: 'On Sunday I walk out with a soldier'

I don't want to join the army,
I don't want to go to war.
I'd rather hang around Piccadilly underground,
Living off the earnings of a lady typist.
I don't want a bayonet in my belly,
I don't want my bollocks shot away.
I'd rather stay in England, in merry merry England,
And fornicate this bleeding life away.

'We are Fred Karno's Army'

Tune: 'The Church's One Foundation'

We are Fred Karno's army, we are the ragtime infantry.
We cannot fight, we cannot shoot, what bleeding use are we?
And when we get to Berlin we'll hear the Kaiser say,
'Hoch, hoch! Mein Gott, what a bloody rotten lot, are the ragtime infantry'

[Fred Karno = a comedian of the time, sometimes replced with 'in Kitchener's']