Robert W. Service

“ Me wretched past like a pitchur — the sins of a gambler's life.
For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom;
I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb;
I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim;
I'd only — a deck of cards, boys, but . . . it seemed to do just the same. ”

“ He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present,
And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant,
I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed
By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest.
For I — and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys!
'Ave been — let me whisper it 'oarsely — a gambler 'alf of me days;
A gambler, you 'ear — a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep,
And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! — I'd rather gamble than sleep. ”

“ And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan,
Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man.
But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front!
The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! ”