On the Forfar ‘bus in a morn of spring,
A nipping wind and the frost’s sharp sting;
And I can’t tell why, but you want to sing
If your heart’s like the heart o’ me.
The folks in the ‘bus, they stretch their legs,
And talk of the fall in the price of eggs,
Of milk by the pint, and butter in kegs,
With – “drop in some day to your tea.”
And my mind goes back to the days that were –
Days of turmoil and days of stir,
And a ‘bus from Albert to Pozieres,
And fellows that rode with me.
We cursed the night, and we cursed the wet;
We envied the luck of the men we met
Coming out of the trenches at Courcelette –
A hell of a place to be.
The Forfar ‘bus brought me back once more
As the clock of the Pillars was striking four;
Though the wind may blow and the rain may pour,
There’s a chair and a fire for me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But the lads that jumped off at the duckboard track –
(Cold was the night, and heavy the pack) –
They didn’t join on when the ‘bus went back –
And they’ll never come in for their tea.