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Robert W Service - The Red Retreat
Work rating: Medium

Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers
    (I`ve `ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin` feet);
Tramp, tramp, the dim road — we didn`t `ave no pipers,
    And bellies that was `oller was the drums we `ad to beat.
Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o` kiddies cryin` there,
    The fell birds a-flyin` there, the `ouses all aflame;
Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin` there,
    Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it`s a shame!

A-singin` "`Oo`s Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from `Arver,
    A-singin` till our froats was dry — we didn`t care a `ang;
The Frenchies `ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver,
    And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang";
They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy,
    And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed;
And `ow they all went dotty when we `owled the Marcelaisey!
    Oh, Gawd! Them was the `appy days, the days too good to last.

We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin`;
    We `ollered: "`Ere We Are Again", and `struth! but we was dry.
The dust was gummin` up our ears, and `ow the sweat was pourin`;
    The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky.
We wondered where the `Uns was — we wasn`t long a-wonderin`,
    For down a scruff of `ill-side they rushes like a flood;
Then oh! `twas music `eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin`,
    And arms and legs went soarin` in the fountain of their blood.

For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin` and a-singin`;
    We pumped the bullets into `em, we couldn`t miss a shot.
But though we mowed `em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin`,
    And all our `ands was blistered, for our rifles was so `ot.
We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin` out of `em,
    And then we fixed our bay`nets and we spitted `em like meat.
You should `ave `eard the beggars squeal; you should `ave seen the rout of `em,
    And `ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat!

Retreat! That was the `ell of it. It fair upset our `abits,
    A-runnin` from them blighters over `alf the roads of France;
A-scurryin` before `em like a lot of blurry rabbits,
    And knowin` we could smash `em if we just `ad `alf a chance.
Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin` and a-blunderin`;
    All day and night a-hoofin` it and sleepin` on our feet;
A-fightin` rear guard actions for a bit o` rest, and wonderin`
    If sugar beets or mangels was the `olesomest to eat.

Ho yus, there isn`t many left that started out so cheerily;
    There was no bands a-playin` and we `ad no autmobeels.
Our tummies they was `oller, and our `eads was `angin` wearily,
    And if we stopped to light a fag the `Uns was on our `eels.
That rotten road! I can`t forget the kids and mothers flyin` there,
    The bits of barns a-blazin` and the `orrid sights I sor;
The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin` there,
    Their faces covered over wiv a little `eap of stror.

Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets `ummin`
    (I`ve panted out this ditty with me `ot `ard breath.)
Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin`,
    The lootin` and the shootin` and the shrieks o` death.
Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad `orde pursuin` there,
    And `ow we `urled it back again, them grim, grey waves;
Tramp, tramp, the `ell road, the `orror and the ruin there,
    The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.
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