(aka My Little Grey Home / My Little Grey Home in the West)
Music by Hermann Löhr
Words by Dorothy Eardley-Wilmot
1911
When the golden sun sinks in the hills,
And the toil of a long day is o’er
Though the road may be long, in the lilt of a song
I forget I was weary before
Far ahead, where the blue shadows fall
I shall come to contentment and rest;
And the toils of the day will be all charmed away
In my little grey home of the west
There are hands that will welcome me in
There are lips I am burning to kiss
There are two eyes that shine just because they are mine,
And a thousand things other men miss
It’s a corner of heaven itself
Though it’s only a tumble-down nest,
But with love brooding there, why no place can compare
With my little grey home in the west.
Parody Lyrics
Pegler p341
In our little wet home in the trench,
That the rain storms continually drench,
There’s a dead cow near-by with its hooves in the sky,
And it gives off a terrible stench.
Beneath us instead of a floor,
Is a layer of cold mud and straw.
The Jack Jacksons we dread,
As they speed overhead,
In our little wet home in the trench.
Max Arthur p58
(credited to Tom Skeyhill 1915)
In our little wet hole in the trench,
Where the rainstorms continually drench;
There are shell stars that shine,
Every night just at nine,
And a lot of things you civvies miss;
There are whizz-bangs and five-nines galore,
And the mic and the rats I adore;
Sure, with a bomb from the air,
Why, no place could compare,
With my little wet home in the trench.
There’s a little wet home in the trench,
Where the rain drops continually drench,
There’s a dead cow close by,
With her feet towards the sky,
And she gives off a terrible stench.
Underneath me instead of a floor,
There’s a mass of some mud and some straw,
The “Jack Jackson’s” tear,
Through the rain-sodden air,
In my little wet home in the trench.
Jack Johnson’s = heavy artillery shells that gave off a distinctive black smoke, named after the boxing champion of the world.
Nettleingham p29
In a little wet trench in the west,
Where the Germans cannot get at me,
It’s not very grand, and we most of us stand,
And the only good thing is our tea.
Over there where the great big shells fall,
The Huns are afraid of us – lest
We should bayonet them with true British phglem,
Should they visit our home in the west.
There are hand that will welcome them out,
There are guns that are waiting to fire,
There are eyes that look out for the chance of a bout,
Though we’re up to our eyes in the mire.
It’s a hell upon earth for us all,
But we mean to be first on the ball.
When the kick-off takes place, we’ll be first in the race,
From our little wet trench in the west,
There are dug-outs and other things new,
Funk-holes, trench mortars, bombs and grenades,
The only thing hot is our ration of stew,
Don’t we wish we were back at our trades?
Never mind – we’re out on the job,
Though we’re not paid at Union Rates,
Oh! we shan’t rest content till we;ve made a big dent
In another wet trench in the west
Flanders, 1914.