I am crying for my love, crying out loud,
He is in the army and I am so proud.
But he may get hurt,
Lying on the ground with a torn shirt, with a torn shirt.
Blood may be pouring out of his head
And the blood may be claret red.
The trenches are dark, deep and damp
There is not one single lamp
When he comes home
He might think he’s in Rome
And speak Italian
Like he’s fighting in a battalion.
I’m hoping he will make sober friends.
If he falls out he will make amends
He is not extremely brave.
But when the need arises, grave.
I love him so I hate to think he’s dead.
“Oh, poor you,” my sympathetic friends would have said.