Now he has got the chance of his life,
The chance of earning glorious scars,
And I picture him scouring a land of strife,
Crouching over his handle-bars,
His open exhaust, with its roar and stench,
Like a Maxim gun in a British trench.
Lad, when we met in that country lane
Neither foresaw the days to come,
But I know that if ever we meet again
My heart will throb to your engine's hum,
And to-day, as I read, I catch my breath
At the thought of your ride through the hail of death!
But to you it is just a glorious lark;
Scorn of danger is still your creed.
As you open her out and advance your spark
And humour the throttle to get more speed,
Life has only one end for you,
To carry your priceless message through!
BURGOMASTER MAX
[Sidenote: _H.B._]
Our children will sing with delight for all time
Of the Briton, the French, and the Russian,
But most of the man who with humour sublime
Pulled the goose-stepping leg of the Prussian.
NEWS FROM THE FRONT
[Sidenote: _C.E.B. in the "Evening News"_]
This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real
feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication
by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words
parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations
of a disgustful kind.
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