POILU

You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little capAnd your war worn, faded uniform of blue,With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap,And your rifle that is ’most as big as you.You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song,Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray,And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long,Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay.Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while,And your days and nights are racking in the line,There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile,Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine.You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowdTo upraise their lips and for your kisses pout,Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loudAnd your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out.You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an airO’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run,And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair,But that heart of yours is always twenty-one.No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard,For you want to chum with us and words you lack;So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.”We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back.Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M. P.

You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap

And your war worn, faded uniform of blue,

With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap,

And your rifle that is ’most as big as you.

You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song,

Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray,

And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long,

Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay.

Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while,And your days and nights are racking in the line,There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile,Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine.You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowdTo upraise their lips and for your kisses pout,Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loudAnd your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out.You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an airO’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run,And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair,But that heart of yours is always twenty-one.No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard,For you want to chum with us and words you lack;So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.”We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back.Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M. P.

Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while,

And your days and nights are racking in the line,

There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile,

Oh, so wistful and so patient and so fine.

You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd

To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout,

Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loud

And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out.

You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an air

O’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run,

And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair,

But that heart of yours is always twenty-one.

No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard,

For you want to chum with us and words you lack;

So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.”

We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back.

Steuart M. Emery, Pvt., M. P.

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