There are little girls at Nottingham Who do not dread the boche, Young girls at school at Nottingham (Lord! how I need a wash!) There are little boys at Nottingham Who never hear a gun; There are silly fools at Nottingham Who think we’re here for fun. When-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Young crocus buds at Nottingham! Thousands of buds at Nottingham Ungathered by the Hun.
But here we trample down the grass Into a purple slime; There lives no tree to give the birds House room in pairing time. We live in holes, like cellar rats, But through the noise and smell I often see those crocuses Of which the people tell. Why-- There are crocuses at Nottingham! Bright crocuses at Nottingham! Real crocuses at Nottingham! Because we’re here in Hell.
I knit, I knit, I pray, I pray. My knitting is my rosary. And as I weave the stitches gray, I murmur pray’rs continually. Gray loop, a sigh, gray knot, a wish, Gray row a chain of wistful pray’r, For thus to sit and knit and pray-- This is of war the woman’s share.
And so I knit, and thus I pray, And keep repeating night and day, May God lead safely those dear feet That soon shall wear the web of gray. Now and again a selfish strain? But surely woman heart must yearn, And pray sometimes that she may hear The footsteps that return.
But if, O God, Not that. But if it must be sacrifice complete, Then I will trust that afterward Thou wilt guide home those precious feet.
I can count my francs an’ santeems-- If I’ve got a basket near-- An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,” But the verbs are awful queer, An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns When I try to talk to you, For your eyes are so bewitchin’ I forget to parlay voo.
In your pretty little garden, With the bench beside the wall, An’ the sunshine on the asters, An’ the purple phlox so tall, I should like to whisper secrets But my language goes askew-- With the second person plural For the old familiar “too.”
In your pretty little garden I could always say “juh tame,” But it ain’t so very subtle, An’ it ain’t not quite the same As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,” Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”-- But my adjectives get manly Right before a lady noun.
Those infinitives perplex me; I can say you’re “tray jolee,” But beyond that simple statement All my tenses don’t agree. I can make the Boche “comprenney” When I meet ’em in a trench, But the softer things escape me When I try to yap in French.