WHEN our enterprising bombers are not bombing,
And our rifles are not throwing their grenades,
We get tidings that the Gilded Staff are coming,
And we get the men to work with picks and spades.
When our bombing posts at night-time we're alarming
For surprises by the ever-ready Hun,
And it's raining and the weather isn't charming,
Oh, a bomber's life is not a happy one.
Chorus--When he's scheming out surprises for the Hun,
Oh, a bomber's life is not a happy one.
First our bombing post in trenches we are placing
Where the enterprising German might creep in,
Then back homeward for a memo, we are chasing
On a hand grenade deficient of a pin.
When our parties we are personally taking
Through a salient that's like a rabbit-run,
And our knees with fear of oil-cans both are quaking,
Oh, a bomber's life is not a happy one.
When we contemplate a little mild aggression,
Other officers all gather round and say
In tones of unmistakable depression,
That they'd much prefer it if we'd go away.
When at last, by dint of infinite intriguing,
They allow a little bombing to be done,
And we find that all our men are off fatiguing,
Oh, a bomber's life is not a happy one.
