Edward Dyson - Mickey MollynooEdward Dyson - Mickey Mollynoo
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A mile-long panto dragon ploddin`
`opeless all the day,
Stuffed out with kits, `n` spiked with rifles,
steamin` in its sweat,
A-heavin` down the misty road, club-footed
through the clay,
By waggons bogged `n` buckin` guns,
the wildest welter yet,
Like `arf creation`s tenants shiftin` early
in the wet.
We`re marchin` out, we dunno where, to meet
we dunno who;
But here we lights eventual, `n` sighs `n`
slips the kit,
`N`, `struth, the first to take us on is Mickie
Mollynoo!
A copper of the Port he was, when `istory
was writ.
Sez I : “We`re sent to face the foe, `n`, selp
me, this is It.”
A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up
with the push
Is all his joy. One evenin` when his
baton`s flyin` free
I takes a baby brick, `n` drives it hard agin
the cush,
`N` Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the
world to see,
But not afore indelible he`s put his mark on
me.
I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me
lug
Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them
`appy, careless days.
He`s sargin` now, a vet`ran; I`m a newchum
and a mug,
`N` when he sorter fixes me there`s some-
thin` in his gaze
That`s pensive like. “Move on!” sez he.
“Keep movin` there!” he says.
If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous
and crool,
The mills in Butcher`s Alley when the
watch is on the wine,
Those nights he raided Wylie`s shed to break
the two-up school,
I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that
ain`t divine
He`s toyin` with a scar of old I reckernise
as mine.
`N` so I`m layin` for it, `n` I`m wonderin` how
`n` what.
We`re signed on with the Germans, `n` there
ain`t a vacant date;
But sure it`s comin` to me, `n` it`s comin` `ard
`n` `ot.
Me lurk is patient waitin`, but I`m trim-
min` while I wait
A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin`
tatertate.
Oh, judge me wonder! There`s a scrim that
follers on a raid.
I`m roughin` it all-in with Hans. He sock
me such a bat
I slides on somethin` narsty, `n` me little grave
is made;
But Molly butts my Hun, `n` leaves no face
beneath his hat,
`N`, “`Scuse me, Mister Herr,” sez he, “I have a lien on that!”
He helps me under cover, `n` he `ands me
somethin` wet
(I`ve got a lick or two that leaves me feelin`
pretty sick).
“Lor love yeh, ole John Hop,” sez I, “yiv
buried me in debt.”
“Don`t minton ut at all,” he sez, `n` eyes
me arf-a-tick.
`N` back there in the trench I sits, `n` trims
another brick.
`Tis all this how a month or more; then
Mollynoo sez he:
“Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell `n`
all to view.
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you `n`
me.
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the
Continent is you,
Bar one, yeh gougin` thafe, `n` that is
Sargin` Mollynoo!”
I take, with knife `n` pistol, arf a brick to line
me shirt.
We creeps a thousan` yards or so to jigger
up a gun
Which seven Huns is workin` on the Irish like
a squirt.
We gets across them, me `n` him. I pots
the extra one;
Mick chokes his third in comfort, `n`,
be`old, the thing is done!
He stands above me, rakin` sweat from off his
gleamin` nut.
“Me dipper`s leakin`, Mick,” sez I; “me
leg is bit in two.”
Sez he: “Bleed there in comfort, I`m for
bringin` help, ye scut.”
He`s back in twenty minutes, with a dillied
German crew.
“Three`ll carry in the gun,” sez he, “the
rest will carry you.”
I dunno how he got `em, but he made them
barrer me.
They lugged the gun before him, `n` he
yarded them like geese.
Then Mickie s`lutes the Major. “They`re in
custody,” sez he,
“Fer conduc` calculated to provoke a breach
iv peace,
A-tearin` iv me uniform, `n` `saultin` the
po-lice.”
Then down he dumped. His wounds would
make a `arf a column list.
When hack to front I chucks me bricks `n`
smiles the best I can.
He grins at me: “Yer right,” sez he, “Hold
out yer bla`-guard fist,
I couldn`t fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted
in me pan.
This messin` round wid Germans makes a
chicken iv a man.”
Source
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