Prayer for Those on the Staff
Julian Grenfell
Fighting in mud, we turn to Thee,
In these dread times of battle, Lord.
To keep us safe, if so may be,
From shrapnel, snipers, shell, and sword.
But not on us, for we are men
Of meaner clay, who fight in clay,
but on the Staff, the Upper Ten,
Depends the issue of the Day.
…
The Diggers
Leon Gellert
The diggers are digging, and digging deep,
They’re digging and singing,
And I’m asleep.
They’re digging and singing and swiftly they’re swinging
The flying earth as it falls in a heap.
And some of it scatters and falls on my head;
But the diggers dig on. They can only dig.
They can only sing and their eyes are big,
Their eyes are big and heavy as lead.
They dig and they sing and they think I’m dead
…
Ballad Of Army Pay
F.W. Harvey
In general, if you want a man to do a dangerous job : —
Say, swim the Channel, climb St. Paul’s, or break into and rob
The Bank of England, why, you find his wages must be higher
Than if you merely wanted him to Fight the kitchen fire.
But in the British Army, it’s just the other way.
And the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
You put some men inside a trench, and call them infantrie,
And make them face ten kinds of hell, and face it cheerfully ;
And live in holes like rats, with other rats, and lice, and toads,
And in their leisure time, assist the R.E.’s with their loads.
Then, when they’ve done it all, you give ’em each a bob a day !
For the maximum of danger means the minimum of pay.
We won’t run down the A.S.C., nor yet the R.T.O.
…
The Tot Of Rum
Joseph Lee
A Soliloquy at Stand-to in the Trenches
Before I saw the trenches
I was a strict T.T.,
The pledge I’d took,
The water brook
Was strong enough for me,
But now I take my tot o’ rum—
(I wish to Gawd that Sarg. would come)—
Each morning about three.
It’s easy for the blokes at ‘ome
To talk of honest water,
And tell us when we take our tot—
(A thimble would hold all the lot)—
We really shouldn’t oughter;
But if they’d got to stand in mud
And water to the knee,
I guess they’d take their tot o’ rum—
(I wish to Gawd that Sarg. would come)—
The very same as me.
…
The War Budget
Jessie Pope
HODGE waded through the weekly news,
“The Income Tax, he said,
“That’s nowt to me, I shallunt lose,
‘Twill hit the boss instead.
Lloyd George he be the man for I,
Us poor have nowt to fear.”
He paused then gave a dismal cry :
” They’re goin’ to tax my beer”
…
My Little Wet Home in the Trench
Tom Skeyhill
I’ve a little wet home in the trench,
Which the rain-storms continually drench;
Blue sky overhead,
Mud and clay for a bed,
And a stone that we use for a bench.
Bully beef and hard biscuits we chew;
Shells crackle and scare,
But no place can compare
With my little wet home in the trench.
…
A Song Of Winter Weather
Robert W. Service
It isn’t the foe that we fear;
It isn’t the bullets that whine;
It isn’t the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn’t the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn’t the guns,
And it isn’t the Huns —
It’s the mud,
mud,
mud.
…
CAREERS
Robert Graves
Father is quite the greatest poet
That ever lived anywhere.
You say you’re going to write great music—
I chose that first: it’s unfair.
Besides, now I can’t be the greatest painter and
do Christ and angels, or lovely pears
and apples and grapes on a green dish,
or storms at sea, or anything lovely,
Because that’s been taken by Claire.
It’s stupid to be an engine-driver,
And soldiers are horrible men.
…
Louse Hunting
Isaac Rosenberg
Nudes — stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces
And raging limbs
Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy
Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths
Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare
Over the candle he’d lit while we lay.
…
In No Man’s Land
Ewart Alan Mackintosh
The hedge on the left, and the trench on the right,
And the whispering, rustling wood between,
And who knows where in the wood to-night
Death or capture may lurk unseen.
The open field and the figures lying
Under the shade of the apple trees —
Is it the wind in the branches sighing.
Or a German trying to stop a sneeze ?
…
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
The poetry of the First World War is often associated with grim depictions of suffering, loss, and the futility of war. However, woven through the bleakness is another kind of verse—humorous, sardonic, and sometimes absurd. The poems in this collection take an unconventional approach to war poetry, bringing levity to the trenches and a biting wit to the absurdities of military life. These pieces, written by those who lived through the war, reveal an alternative way of coping: through humor, dark or otherwise.
Julian Grenfell’s “Prayer for Those on the Staff” is a sarcastic plea for the well-being of the upper-class officers, portraying them as fragile and out of touch. It highlights the distance between the decision-makers and the soldiers who actually fight. The humor here is in the exaggerated concern for trivial hardships—fresh eggs and limousine drafts—while men in the trenches endure mud, bullets, and death.
“The Diggers” by Leon Gellert plays with the macabre, turning a near-burial into a punchline. The speaker lies in a grave, mistaken for dead, while his comrades solemnly fill it in. Just as the scene reaches its most grim, he laughs—the joke is on them. This is gallows humor at its finest, where death is always near, but a well-timed laugh can still trump fear.
F.W. Harvey’s “Ballad of Army Pay” points out the cruel irony of military wages. The ones facing the worst dangers—the front-line infantry—receive the least pay. The humor here is dry and bitter, delivered in a singsong rhythm that only emphasizes the ridiculousness of the system. It’s the kind of joke that would be muttered in the trenches with a shake of the head and a knowing smirk.
“The Tot of Rum” by Joseph Lee presents a different kind of comedy—one that leans on camaraderie and shared misery. The speaker, once a staunch teetotaler, now clings to his ration of rum as a lifeline. The structure, with its repeated refrain (“I wish to Gawd that Sarg. would come”), makes it feel almost like a music-hall song. It’s a small, relatable gripe blown up into an anthem of survival.
Jessie Pope’s “The War Budget” satirizes the shifting burdens of wartime taxation. The humor here is in the small, everyday concerns—beer and tea—taking precedence over grander worries about war. It’s a joke about human nature, how people process massive events through the lens of their own minor inconveniences.
Tom Skeyhill’s “My Little Wet Home in the Trench” is a soldier’s take on a sentimental ballad, turning the miserable conditions of trench life into a singable, almost cheerful refrain. The tone is playful, but beneath it lies an unspoken endurance. The soldiers joke because they have no other choice.
Robert W. Service’s “A Song of Winter Weather” continues this theme but adds a sense of exasperation. The enemy isn’t just the Germans—it’s the mud, the rain, the cold. The repetition of those words hammers home the point: the war is brutal, but sometimes the worst of it is just existing in the trenches.
“Careers” by Robert Graves takes a detour from the front lines, offering a glimpse at childhood ambition with a scathing undercurrent. The poem feels lighthearted, but it reflects a deeper frustration—how war disrupts dreams and forces people into roles they never wanted.
Isaac Rosenberg’s “Louse Hunting” is pure grotesque comedy. Soldiers stripping down, flailing about, battling lice like madmen—it’s a chaotic, almost surreal scene. There’s a strange joy in the absurdity, a desperate need to find entertainment in misery.
Finally, Ewart Alan Mackintosh’s “In No Man’s Land” delivers one of the most memorable jokes in war poetry. The speaker faces an enemy soldier but can’t bring himself to shoot because the man has a cold. It’s a ridiculous, strangely humane moment—one that cuts through the brutality of war with an oddly relatable hesitation.
Gallows humor during wartime is a way for soldiers to cope with the immense horrors and absurdities they face. It’s not about making light of the suffering or death around them, but about survival—mental survival in particular. The darkest humor often springs from situations so bleak that they defy any rational or traditional response. It’s a way of reclaiming some control when everything else seems out of their hands.
Soldiers are often faced with environments that test not just their physical endurance but their mental resilience. They live in constant danger, often dealing with wounds, exhaustion, and loss. Humor becomes a tool to deflect the crushing weight of these experiences, to momentarily take the edge off the pain, fear, and horror. In poems like “Prayer for Those on the Staff” by Julian Grenfell, the absurdity of the divide between those fighting in the trenches and the officers in safer positions is highlighted with biting humor, where the soldiers pray for the comfort of those “safe” in their offices, far removed from the brutal reality of the battlefield.
The therapeutic nature of gallows humor in these contexts is significant. It creates a sense of camaraderie among soldiers as they bond over shared experiences, and the only thing left to do in the face of suffering is laugh. It also allows them to confront the unspeakable. In a world where death is omnipresent, humor provides a brief escape, an opportunity to view the world from a different angle, where even the darkest moments can hold some absurdity.
Ultimately, gallows humor provides a form of escape from the overwhelming weight of war. It’s a vital mechanism that soldiers use to endure the madness around them, making it a psychological shield. The humor allows them to face the impossible, reframe it, and often, make it seem a little less impossible. It’s a tool for survival—not just physical survival, but mental survival, too. And in the madness of war, where everything else seems out of their control, humor is one of the few things soldiers can still hold on to.
