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Robert W Service - Bill`s Grave
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I`m gatherin` flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;
    I`ve sneaked away from the billet, `cause Jim wouldn`t understand;
`E`d call me a silly fat`ead, and larf till it made `im ill,
    To see me `ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me `and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o` the best;
    We `listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;
Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took `is departure West,
    So sudden `e `adn`t a minit to say good-bye to `is chums.

And they took me to where `e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,
    And, thinks I, `ow Bill would be tickled, bein` so soft and queer,
If I gathered a bunch o` them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round
    Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that`s the reason I`m `ere.

But not for the love of glory I wouldn`t `ave Jim to know.
    `E`d call me a slobberin` Cissy, and larf till `is sides was sore;
I`d `ave larfed at meself too, it isn`t so long ago;
    But some`ow it changes a feller, `avin` a taste o` war.

It `elps a man to be `elpful, to know wot `is pals is worth
    (Them golden poppies is blazin` like lamps some fairy `as lit);
I`m fond o` them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim`s o` the salt o` the earth;
    But `e `as got a tongue wot`s a terror, and `e ain`t sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot`s `idin` so shylike among the corn.
    Won`t Bill be glad! We was allus thicker `n thieves, us three.
Why! `Oo`s that singin` so `earty? JIM! And as sure as I`m born
    `E`s there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin` flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be`ind me. I watches `im for a while,
    Then I says: "Wot `o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?"
And `e starts like a bloke wot`s guilty, and `e says with a sheepish smile:
    "She`s a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."

So `e goes away in a `urry, and I wishes `im best o` luck,
    And I picks up me bunch o` wild-flowers, and the light`s gettin` sorto dim,
When I makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . I stares like a man wot`s stuck,
    For wot do I see? Bill`s grave-mound strewn with the flowers of Jim.

Of course I won`t never tell `im, bein` a tactical lad;
    And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?"
Oh, `e`d die of shame if `e knew I knew; but say! won`t Bill be glad
    When `e stares through the bleedin` clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?
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