The Song of the Trenches

By Pte. Lawrence Johnson

Over the head in the trenches lads Up to the knees in grime

Squatting around in our hole in the ground

Singing to pass the time

The only encore is the cannon’s roar While we wait for the word “Advance” To strike a blow at our country’s foe On the muddy fields of France

There are those whom we left behind us

Who wish they’d been born men Who’d wish he were young again To share our lot in the trenches

Right glad to have a chance Of striking a blow at our country’s foe On the muddy fields of France. Gathered here in the trenches

We’re a rankless jolly lot

Distinctions all have perished

Of the past there is no thought

The parson with a pedigree

And the miner from the pit

They’re just humble “Tommy Atkins” now

What matter if they’re fit

To do a spell in the trenches

In cold and slush and grime

While those at home remember them In their prayers every time

Through the mud is our way to glory And our victory ’twill enhance

When we get a blow at our hidden foe On the muddy fields of France

There are some of those in the homeland

Who seem afraid to fight

They entrench themselves on conscience

And say it isn’t right

These would seem to have been

revivals

The thing has gone so far

Have they never read what the Book has said

“The Lord is a man of war”

Only last night beside me

A brave young soldier fell

Struck down by a German bullet From where we could not tell

His khaki coat lay o’er him

Till borne from our view

But that patch of red to his countrymen said

“My life I have given for you”

He was only a private soldier

But he did his duty there

And somewhere back in the homeland

There’s another vacant chair

Some mother’s heart will miss him And a sweetheart’s tears may flow But the noise and din of battle He never again will know

Long months he had spent in the trenches

In cold and slush and grime

He was ever a jovial spirit

With a smile that was quite sublime The mud be his measure of glory He has made his last ”Advance” From the wet and the grime of the trenches

And the muddy fields of France

Over the head in the trenches

Up to the knees in grime

Squatting around in our hole in the ground

Singing to pass the time

We are not downhearted, no

But waiting the word “Advance” To strike a blow at a dastard foe On the muddy fields of France