THE German in his blindness,
He seeks his dug-out door
As soon as our trench-mortars
And guns begin to roar.
He doesn't wear equipment,
His sentries aren't about,
And then up come the Seaforths
And knock the Bosches out.
What though their roomy dug-outs
Go down for half a mile,
Where every prospect pleases
And only Bosche is vile;
Yet no one of their inmates
Has been known to survive,
An intimate acquaintance
With our old Number 5.
So all you little Bosches,
That listen to my lay,
Stick closely to your rifles,
And clean them every day,
And every night and morning
Just fill yourselves with rum,
For you'll need all your ration
The day the Seaforths come.
