Readers, oor minds ir noo dewllin’,
An’ sad ir we at the heart;
Far far ayont ony tellin’,
Yit Britons maun play thir part.

Though war is wicked an’ cruel,
We won’t let auld German Wul’
Knock doon, split up, an’ mak’ fuel
O’ ocht that belongs tae John Bul’.

The Hame Rool that forced sic’ merchin
Wuz despirt a couple o’ years,
Least the wrong side shud get perchin’
Lies low surrounded bae fears.

We canna’ al’ be brave Jack Tars,
Who know the seas tae a perch;
Nur famous gallant sons o’ Mars,
Yit al’ ir on the great merch.

Ooor first merchin’ is a bit cra’ly,
Though mother sees naethin’ wrang;
The nixt pace micht be termed gra’lly,
Then intae step wae tho thrang.

What monie tramp in great trouble,
No aye, ay coorse, thir ain falt’;
Ither yins bab on a bubble,
Wha niver want tae hear “halt.”

Some gee in thir gun gie early,
Ithers loiter on fur as lang;
Some merch upricht an’ fower-squarley;
Ithers wabble on in the wrang.

Some merch up an’ we fear some don,
Nae odds whut uniform they don;
Some merch strecht an’ we hear some roon,
But the command is “Al’ merch on.”

Tak’ my wurd fur yince, dear mercher,
Life’s parade is nae a dream;
An’ whun inspected bae the Searcher,
Things ‘ll then be whut they seem.

Here lies the work fur Gospel preachers
An’ you, whuther heich ur low,
Mind the Book that teachers teachers,
States it en’s in weel ur woe.

Adam Lynn, Cullybackey 15th February 1915

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