"
When t' country were chuff,(3) an' boasted
That t' sun niver set on her flags,
I thowt o' wer back-to-back houses,
Wer childer i' spetches(4) an' rags,
When t' country drave by i' her carriage,
Wi' flunkies afore an' behind,
I left her to bettermy bodies,
An' I gav her a taste o' my mind.
But when shoo were liggin' i' t' gutter,
Wi' a milit'rist mob at her throit,
"Hands off her!" I cried, "shoo's my mother:"
An' I doffed my cap an' my coit.
I'd gien ower wark at seventy,
But I gat agate once more;
"I'll live for my country, not on her"
Were my words on t' fettlers' floor.
Shoo's putten her trust i' us workers,
We'll save her, niver fear;
Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,
Her childer that loves her dear.
Eight o' my grandsons has fallen,
My youngest lad's crippled i' t' arm;
But I'll give her choose-what(5) shoo axes,
Afore I'll see her tak harm.
T' war is a curse an' a blessin',
If fowks could understan';
It's brokken my home an' my childer,
But it's made me an Englishman.
1. until 2. Starve 3.
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