Classic Poem

On " La Flandre nicht , " in MacCadell's trench,
Wi' a keg o' the Dymock's brew,
We sat till four an' we didna flench
In the grip o' the mountain dew.

Saint C LAIR was there, wi' his cannie e'e —
The P EPLOE , keen as a hawk!
M AC C ADELL himsel' was the cock o' the spree,
But the P ITTENDRIGH he did talk.

Frae aucht we sat, through a lang nicht-shift;
Nae heed for the German swine!
For we war back whaur our herts did lift
An' we roastit the " chestnuts " fine!

An' aye we ettle't the ither dram,
Wi' dry oat-cakes for a foond;
An' aye for the " G LUEPOTS " anither " damn! "
Gart the German fleg at the soond!

We haurl't the " Glesga Schule " frae its grave
Whaur it lies in DUNEDIN'S mools;
We finger't their scalps, but — what needs we rave! —
The best — come the day , are but snools!

Syne the P ITTENDRIGH said — as he liftit at last:
" The keg o' guid Dymock's düne! "
The lave raise up — tho' they lookit seat-fast,
An' we a' thocht — shürely it 's süne!

But oor watch was bye, an' the lamp gaen oot:
So we snookit a trench to the rear;
But we 'll mind that nicht in M AC C ADELL'S " dug-oot "
An' the morn that oor heids hung sweir!