Lucky Tim.

Timothy Hogg was a bold Camelier,
From the land of the setting sun;
And the girls gave Timmy a rousing cheer
When he started to mop up the-Hun.
He trekked over Egypt and Sinai;
He led the Jacko's a dance,
And he gleefull cried, as he winked his eye:
"I'm lucky I'm not in France."

When Abdul came with a mighty charge,
And Romani was fought and won,
Tim stopped some shrapnel good and large;
For a while his work was done.
They packed him off with his blood-soaked gear
In a ricketty ambulance;
But the driver laughed, as the shells dropped near:
"We're lucky we're not in France."

At Rafa and Maghdaba, Timothy fought,
Got a holiday wound as well:
"It's no such joke as the home folk thought,
For Jacko can fight like hell."
He opened his mail in careless glee,
Then swore, and looked askance.
Said his "bint" and his Ma, and his sisters three:
You're lucky you're not in France."

At Gaza's heights the Light Horse dashed,
Bold Cameliers charged in vain;
The Welsh were slaughtered, Scots were smashed;
In the Wadi blood flowed like rain.
Then Tim heard an officer—who at Mons
Had stemmed the Huns' advance—
Exclaim, mid the roar of the murdering guns,
"I wish I was back in France."

Palestine. Trooper Bluegum.

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