THE PADRE CAPT. C. W. BLACKALL

’E’S a sportsman is our Padre, Of that there ain’t a doubt. ’E don’t chuck religion at yer, An’ preach at yer an’ spout; An’ if ’e ’ears yer cussin’, As yer fillin’ up ther bags, ’E jest ses, “Fumigate your throat,” An’ ’ands yer out some fags. ’E don’t take all fer granted That yer murderers an’ thieves, An’ always tell yer, now’s ther time Fer turnin’ over leaves. ’E’ll wander round ther trenches, Jest to pass ther time o’ day. An’ there ain’t a bloke as doesn’t feel A man ’as passed that way. I remember once, near Wipers, When things was pretty ’ot, An’ yer ’ad ter keep yer nut down If yer didn’t want it shot; While they was fairly plasterin’ As fast as they could load, ’E came ridin’—mark yer, ridin— All down ther Menin Road. ’E was dossin’ in a “staminay,” Pyjamas all complete, When a ’igh-explosive carried ’Arf the ’ouse into the street. While other blokes was runnin’ wild, An’ kickin’ up a row, ’E calmly arsts, “Pray, what is the Correct procedure now?” They tells ’im as ’e’d better Do a bunk for all ’e’s worth, As ’is bloomin’ “staminay” is not Ther safest spot on earth. But ’e ’as a look around ’im, An’ wags ’is bally ’ead; Ses ’e, “It seems quite restful now,” An’ back ’e goes to bed. But ’e fairly put ther lid on When we made ther last attack: If ’is lads was goin’ ter cop it, ’E weren’t fer ’angin’ back. So ’e ’ops out of ther trenches Level with ther foremost ’ound, An’ natural like ’e stops one An’ gets a little wound. ’E’s a sportsman is our Padre, Of that there ain’t a doubt. ’E don’t chuck religion at yer, An’ preach at yer an’ spout. Still, ’e’ll show ther way ter ’Eaven— That’s if anybody can— But we’d follow ’im to ’ell; ’cos why? Our Padre ’e’s a man.