Robert W. Service
When your marrer bone seems ‘oller,
And you’re glad you ain’t no taller,
And you’re all a-shakin’ like you ‘ad the chills;
When your skin creeps like a pullet’s,
And you’re duckin’ all the bullets,
And you’re green as gorgonzola round the gills;
When your legs seem made of jelly,
And you’re squeamish in the belly,
And you want to turn about and do a bunk:
For Gawd’s sake, kid, don’t show it!
Don’t let your mateys know it—
You’re just sufferin’ from funk, funk, funk.
Of course there’s no denyin’
That it ain’t so easy tryin’
To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,
When the ‘ole world rips asunder,
And you sees yer pal go under,
As a bunch of shrapnel sprays ‘im on the nut;
I admit it’s ‘ard contrivin’
When you ‘ears the shells arrivin’,
To discover you’re a bloomin’ bit o’ spunk;
But, my lad, you’ve got to do it,
And your God will see you through it,
For wot ‘E ‘ates is funk, funk, funk.
So stand up, son; look gritty,
And just ‘um a lively ditty,
And only be afraid to be afraid;
Just ‘old yer rifle steady,
And ‘ave yer bay’nit ready,
For that’s the way good soldier-men is made.
And if you ‘as to die,
As it sometimes ‘appens, why,
Far better die a ‘ero than a skunk;
A-doin’ of yer bit,
And so—to ‘ell with it,
There ain’t no bloomin’ funk, funk, funk.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
You may find this and other poems here.
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem strikes straight at the gut, talking about fear in war—the kind that makes your body tremble and your mind scream for escape. But it doesn’t dress it up or romanticize it. The narrator acknowledges that fear, or “funk,” is a part of war, and not a shameful thing in itself. What’s striking is how the poem takes that raw, physical reality of terror—the shaking legs, the queasy stomach, the primal urge to run—and places it alongside a blunt, unflinching demand for courage.
The language here is plain and conversational, almost like advice given by an older, hardened soldier to a nervous recruit. It’s not about heroism in the abstract or glory in the traditional sense. It’s about grit—about showing up and sticking it out, even when every instinct tells you to bolt. The repetition of “funk, funk, funk” hammers home how pervasive fear is, but also how determined the speaker is to stamp it out. It’s like the speaker is punching through the panic with those words, daring it to take hold.
There’s a practical wisdom in this poem. It doesn’t ask for superhuman bravery; it just tells you to keep your fear hidden and keep moving forward. The idea of “gripping your rifle by the butt” or “having your bayonet ready” feels less like a motivational speech and more like survival instructions. The humor in lines like “green as gorgonzola round the gills” adds to the sense that the speaker is leveling with you—this is what war does to everyone, but you can’t let it control you.
The poem also has a defiance about it, especially in the last stanza. The advice to “just ‘um a lively ditty” is almost absurd in the face of death, but it’s exactly that absurdity that gives it power. It’s a way of reclaiming control when everything around you is chaos. And the bluntness of “Far better die a ‘ero than a skunk” makes the stakes crystal clear. The poem doesn’t sugarcoat anything; it’s not saying you won’t be scared or that you won’t die. But it demands dignity and pride in the face of that inevitability.
Ultimately, this poem doesn’t glorify war. It doesn’t even pretend that bravery comes easy. It just says: fear is there, but you don’t have to let it win. It’s as honest as it is tough, and it leaves you with the sense that courage isn’t about not feeling fear—it’s about refusing to let it define you.