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Edward Dyson - Peace, Blessed Peace
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Here in the flamin` thick of thick of things,
   With Death across the way, `n` traps 
What little Fritz the German flings 
   Explodin` in yer lunch pe`aps, 
It ain`t all glory for a bloke`, 
   It ain`t all corfee `ot and stoo, 
Nor wavin` banners in the smoke, 
Or practisin` the bay`net stroke— 
   We has our little troubles, too! 

Here`s Trigger Ribb bin seein` red 
   `N` raisin` Cain because he had, 
Back in the caverns iv his `ead, 
   A `oller tooth run ravin` mad. 
Pore Trigger up `n` down the trench 
   Was jiggin` like a blithered loan, 
`N` every time she give a wrench 
You orter seen the beggar blench, 
   You orter `eard him play a toon. 

The sullen shells was pawin` blind, 
   A-feelin` for us grim as sin, 
While now `n` then we`d likely find 
   A dizzy bomb come limpin` in. 
But Trigger simply let `er sizz. 
   He `ardly begged to be excused. 
This was no damn concern of his. 
He twined a muffler round his phiz, 
   `N` fearful was the words he used. 

Lest we be getting` cock-a-whoop 
   Ole `Ans tries out his box of tricks. 
His bullets all around the coop 
  Is peckin` like a million chicks. 
But Trigger when they barks his snout 
   Don`t sniff at it. He won`t confess 
They`re on the earth—ignores the clout, 
`N` makes the same old sung about 
   His brimmin` mug of bitterness. 

They raided us there in the mud 
   One day afore the dead sun rose. 
Me oath, the mess of stuff and blood 
   Would give a slaughterman the joes! 
And when the scrap is past and done, 
   Where`s Trigger Ribb? The noble youth 
Has got his bay`net in a Hun, 
While down his cheeks the salt tears run. 
   Sez he to me “Gorbli`—this tooth!” 

A shell hoist Trigger in a tree. 
   We found him motherin` his jor. 
“If this ache`s goin` on,” sez he, 
   “So `elp me, it`ll spoil the war!” 
Five collared Trigger on his perch, 
   They wired his molar to a bough, 
Then give the anguished one a lurch, 
`N` down he pitches. From that birch 
   His riddled tooth is hangin` now. 

This afternoon it`s merry `ell; 
   Grenades is comin` by the peck; 
A big gun times us true `n well, 
   And, oh! we gets it in the neck. 
They lick out flames hat reach a mile, 
   The drip of lead will never cease. 
But Trigger`s pottin` all the while; 
He sports a fond `n` foolish smile- 
   “Thank Gord,” he sez, “a bit of peace!”
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