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Robert W Service - The Twa Jocks
Work rating: Low

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That`s whit I hate maist aboot fechtin` — it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin` sae fine,
Weel, think o` it, doon in the dunnie there`s bottles and bottles o` wine.
A` hell`s fairly belchin` oot yonner, but oh, lad, I`m ettlin` tae try. . . ."
"If it`s poose she`ll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?
We`re dodgin` a` kinds o` destruction, an` jist by the skin o` oor teeth.
Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur;
Confoond ye, ye big Hielan` deevil! Ye don`t realize there`s a war.
Ye think that ye`re back in Dunvegan, and herdin` the wee bits o` kye."
"She`ll neffer trink wine in Dunfegan," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Thank goodness! the ferm-hoose at last;
There`s no muckle left but the cellar, an` even that`s vanishin` fast.
Look oot, there`s the corpse o` a wumman, sair mangelt and deid by her lane.
Quick! Strike a match. . . . Whit did I tell ye! A hale bonny box o` shampane;
Jist knock the heid aff o` a bottle. . . . Haud on, mon, I`m hearing a cry. . . ."
"She`ll think it`s a wean that wass greetin`," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: quot;Ma conscience! I`m hanged but yer richt.
It`s yin o` thae waifs of the war-field, a` sobbin` and shakin` wi` fricht.
Wheesht noo, dear, we`re no gaun tae hurt ye. We`re takin` ye hame, my wee doo!
We`ve got tae get back wi` her, Hecky. Whit mercy we didna get fou!
We`ll no touch a drap o` that likker — that`s hard, man, ye canna deny. . . ."
"It`s the last thing she`ll think o` denyin`," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "If I should get struck frae the rear,
Ye`ll tak` and ye`ll shield the wee lassie, and rin for the lines like a deer.
God! Wis that the breenge o` a bullet? I`m thinkin` it`s cracket ma spine.
I`m doon on ma knees in the glabber; I`m fearin`, auld man, I`ve got mine.
Here, quick! Pit yer erms roon the lassie. Noo, rin, lad! good luck and good-by. . . .
"Hoots, mon! it`s ye baith she`ll be takin`," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~

Says Corporal Muckle frae Rannoch: "Is that no` a picture tae frame?
Twa sair woundit Jocks wi` a lassie jist like ma wee Jeannie at hame.
We`re prood o` ye baith, ma brave heroes. We`ll gie ye a medal, I think."
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "I`d raither ye gied me a drink.
I`ll no speak for Private MacCrimmon, but oh, mon, I`m perishin` dry. . . ."
"She`ll wush that Loch Lefen wass whuskey," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
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