A TRENCH POET.

TO THE BOYS AT HOME.

Often in the trenches I think
Of the chaps I left at home,
On the perils that surround them
Wherever they may roam.

How awful it must be at night
To be in a feather bed;
Or to find for breakfast when they rise
There’s butter on their bread.

With these nerve-shaking worries
A chap must be very bad;
And to think I am missing them
Makes me exceeding glad.

Now out in Salonica things are different,
And life is, indeed, fancy free;
We have no butter on our bread,
Nor cow’s milk in our tea.

All we have to worry us
Are bullets, bombs, and shells,
Bully beef and biscuits,
And all the horrid smells.

So to the boys at home there
I send my sympathy;
And ask them for their safety
To come out here to me.