Classic Poem

He 's gone to the war, he's gone to the war,
I doan't care a rap if I see him noa more;
He lethered me reg'lar, Saturday night,
When he collared his wages and allers got tight;
I'm sure I prefer to be single by far
Now he's gone to the war, now he's gone to the war.

His waages was thirteen and sixpence a week,
Wi' extry in harvest, but that was to seek
A cottage—nowt else—made up all our paay,
And when you've ten childer that's not much a daay;
He gev me nine shillings, it didn't goa far:
But now I have plenty—he's gone to the war.

A little bit more'n a shilling a daay
To feed 'em and cloathe 'em and bills for to paay;
The grocer he hated me going to shop,
And as for the butcher—we lived upon sop!
Water and bread, water and bread,
On plenty of water our childer was fed.

We was allers in debt 'coz we couldn't keep out,
Except at the pub, where noa credit's about;
If I wanted to find him I knawed where to goa:
He would be at the “Bull” wi' his mates in a row.
I slaaved at my work while he sung in the bar,
But I'm getting it back now he's gone to the war.

The sarjint popped in and he saw half a doz
Our Tom, Arthur Bates, Willie Jones and his coz
“There's plenty of vittles, and little to do,
“Wi' a suit of good cloathes and a medal or two
They all joined together to have a last drink,
And that sarjint he snapped 'em afore they could

He telled me about it: I said nowt the while
I had to look solemn and try not to smile,
Because I should get—in the paper I seed—
Nearly two quid a week, and noa husband to feed
“You can send me a quid and still save on the rest
I nodded my head and said that would be best.

“Each week you can send it, I'll leave my address
“And when the war's done I'll come back to you, Bess
Soa off he went smiling to Lincoln, full sail,
Wi' cheering and shouting and plenty of ale;
I cried till he'd gone, then set off for to seek
The man what was handing out two quid a week

Two quid a week! two quid a week!
Who wouldn't sell husbands for two quid a week
Noa drink and noa bother, noa quarrelsome brutes
What's nasty and dirty and sleeps in their boots
I pretended to cry, but I laughed in my cheek—
I'd swap forty husbands for two quid a week!

He come hoam on Sat'dy the colour of chalk,
They'd very nigh killed him to judge by his talk
He'd marched and he'd sweated wi' noa chanch shirk,
Not sin' he was born had he done soa much work
He cried like a babby to get in the door,
And when it was Monday, he cried all the more.

He's gone to the war, he's gone to the war,
shan't care a rap if I see him noa more;
In childer is plenty to take your attention,
Though sewing-machines is a useful invention;Can buy owt I want wi' noa husband to keep,
I'm as happy as happy on two quid a week.

There's nobbut one trouble as troubles me now,
And that's how much longer them Germans can go;
They've stood it a year and my childer looks grand,
We've clothes and we've boots and we've money in hand.
If the war should stop now it would be moast distressing,
For one thing is certain: it's just been a blessing.

If anything happens I draw on a pension,
Not two quid a week, but it's still worth attention.
Of course, if the war would keep on a few years,
I shouldn't be bothering, then, wi' noa fears;
There would be enough saved to flit out of this Fen
And when Tom come home he could marry agen.

There niver was knawn such good times for to be,
Wi' two quid a week I'm in clover, you see.
Every now and agen Tom writes hoam for his quid—
Says he'll niver come back if I doan't do his bid!
But I shan't care a rap if I see him noa more,
He can stop where he is now he's gone to the war.


But p'r'aps he'll improve now he's gone from his hoam,
And turn like he was when a-courtin' he come;
If that sarjint can straighten him into a lover,
I should long for the daay when the war would be over;
A sweetheart, a husband, a father, and more—
God knows I should welcome him hoam from the war.