From Woolwich And Brentford And Stamford Hill, From Richmond Into The Strand, Oh, The Cockney Soul Is A Silent Soul, As It Is In Every Land! But Out On The Sand With A Broken Band It's Sarcasm Spurs Them Through; And, With Never A Laugh, In A Gale And A Half, 'Tis The Cockney Cheers The Crew. Oh, Send Them A Tune From The Music-Halls With A Chorus To Shake The Sky! Oh, Give Them A Deep-Sea Chanty Now, And A Star To Steer Them By! Now This Is A Song Of The Great Untrained, A Song Of The Unprepared, Who Had Never The Brains To Plead Unfit, Or Think Of The Things They Dared; Of The Grocer-Souled And The Draper-Souled, And The Clerks Of The Four O'Clock, Who Stood For London And Died For Home In The Nineteen-Fourteen Shock. Oh, This Is A Pork-Shop Warrior'S Chant, Come Back From It, Maimed And Blind, To A Little Old Counter In Grey'S Inn-Road And A Tiny Parlour Behind; And The Bedroom Above, Where The Wife And He Go Silently Mourning Yet For A Son-In-Law Who Shall Never Come Back And A Dead Son'S Room "To Let". (But They Have A Boy "In The Fried-Fish Line" In A Shop Across The "Wye", Who Will Take Them "Aht" And "Abaht" To-Night And Cheer Their Old Eyes Dry.) And This Is A Song Of The Draper'S Clerk (What Have You All To Say?), he'd A Tall Top-Hat And A Walking-Coat In The City Every Day, He Wears No Flesh On His Broken Bones That Lie In The Shell-Churned Loam; For He Went Over The Top And Struck With His Cheating Yard-Wand, Home. (Oh, Touch Your Hat To The Tailor-Made Before You Are Aware, And Lilt Us A Lay Of Bank-Holiday And The Lights Of Leicester-Square!) Hats Off To The Dowager Lady At Home In Her House In Russell-Square! Like The Pork-Shop Back And The Brixton Flat, They Are Silently Mourning There; For One Lay Out Ahead Of The Rest In The Slush 'Neath A Darkening Sky, With The Blood Of A Hundred Earls Congealed And His Eye-Glass To His Eye. (He Gave Me A Cheque In An Envelope On A Distant Gloomy Day; He Gave Me His Hand At The Mansion Door And He Said: "Good-Luck! Good-Bai!")