The Enemy German
Smite, England, to the tramp of marching men—
The rhythmic heart-beat of a world in pain—
Smite, hip and thigh, with flashing steel, and then
Unfurl thy peaceful banners once again
Oh, Polly love, oh, Polly, the rout has now begun,
And we must march along by the beating of the drum;
Go dress yourself in your best and come along with me:
I’ll take you to the war that’s in High Germany.
I HAVE spoken to several prisoners who could speak English, and with no exception they all thought or were told that the British troops were no good at fighting—that it was only niggers we could face. They have got a different view by now: Sergt. Dickson, Coldstream Guards
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