Robert W. Service
Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers
(I’ve ‘ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin’ feet);
Tramp, tramp, the dim road—we didn’t ‘ave no pipers,
And bellies that was ‘oller was the drums we ‘ad to beat.
Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o’ kiddies cryin’ there,
The fell birds a-flyin’ there, the ‘ouses all aflame;
Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin’ there,
Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it’s a shame!
A-singin’ “‘Oo’s Yer Lady Friend?” we started out from ‘Arver,
A-singin’ till our froats was dry—we didn’t care a ‘ang;
The Frenchies ‘ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver,
And all we knowed to arnser was the one word “vang”;
They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy,
And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed;
And ‘ow they all went dotty when we ‘owled the Marcelaisey!
Oh, Gawd! Them was the ‘appy days, the days too good to last.
We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin’;
We ‘ollered: “‘Ere We Are Again”, and ‘struth! but we was dry.
The dust was gummin’ up our ears, and ‘ow the sweat was pourin’;
The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky.
We wondered where the ‘Uns was—we wasn’t long a-wonderin’,
For down a scruff of ‘ill-side they rushes like a flood;
Then oh! ’twas music ‘eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin’,
And arms and legs went soarin’ in the fountain of their blood.
For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin’ and a-singin’;
We pumped the bullets into ’em, we couldn’t miss a shot.
But though we mowed ’em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin’,
And all our ‘ands was blistered, for our rifles was so ‘ot.
We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin’ out of ’em,
And then we fixed our bay’nets and we spitted ’em like meat.
You should ‘ave ‘eard the beggars squeal;
you should ‘ave seen the rout of ’em,
And ‘ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat!
Retreat! That was the ‘ell of it. It fair upset our ‘abits,
A-runnin’ from them blighters over ‘alf the roads of France;
A-scurryin’ before ’em like a lot of blurry rabbits,
And knowin’ we could smash ’em if we just ‘ad ‘alf a chance.
Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin’ and a-blunderin’;
All day and night a-hoofin’ it and sleepin’ on our feet;
A-fightin’ rear guard actions for a bit o’ rest, and wonderin’
If sugar beets or mangels was the ‘olesomest to eat.
Ho yus, there isn’t many left that started out so cheerily;
There was no bands a-playin’ and we ‘ad no autmobeels.
Our tummies they was ‘oller, and our ‘eads was ‘angin’ wearily,
And if we stopped to light a fag the ‘Uns was on our ‘eels.
That rotten road! I can’t forget the kids and mothers flyin’ there,
The bits of barns a-blazin’ and the ‘orrid sights I sor;
The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin’ there,
Their faces covered over wiv a little ‘eap of stror.
Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets ‘ummin’
(I’ve panted out this ditty with me ‘ot ‘ard breath.)
Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin’,
The lootin’ and the shootin’ and the shrieks o’ death.
Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad ‘orde pursuin’ there,
And ‘ow we ‘urled it back again, them grim, grey waves;
Tramp, tramp, the ‘ell road, the ‘orror and the ruin there,
The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem takes you straight into the boots of a soldier, trudging the grim and chaotic roads of war. It’s raw and unvarnished, full of slang and rhythm that sound like they’re straight out of the mouth of a weary, battle-hardened Tommy. The tone swings wildly—from moments of grim humor to scenes of outright horror—which makes it feel real. It doesn’t try to be poetic in the traditional sense. Instead, it tells the story with the kind of rough-edged honesty that sticks with you.
The refrain, “Tramp, tramp,” pounds like the beat of exhausted feet, anchoring the poem in the relentless march of war. Every verse builds on the idea of movement—sometimes forward, sometimes retreating, but always going, with little room to stop and process the devastation left behind. The soldiers’ physical suffering is vividly painted: “bruised and bleedin’ feet,” “’ollered throats,” and “blistered hands.” You can almost feel their exhaustion dripping off the lines.
The poem doesn’t shy away from the grotesque. Bodies are “spitted like meat,” arms and legs “soaring” in explosions, and dead friends lie with their faces covered in straw. There’s no attempt to romanticize it; the images are blunt, almost casual, which somehow makes them hit even harder. The speaker’s matter-of-fact tone about scenes of carnage reflects the numbness of someone forced to witness it day after day.
Yet, even in this brutal landscape, there are moments of humanity. The early verses recall the cheerful days before the horrors set in: singing, joking, kissing girls along the road. These memories feel almost too good to be true, which makes the shift into bloodshed all the more jarring. It’s like the poem drags you along the same emotional arc the soldiers experienced, from blind optimism to grim survival.
The retreat described in the middle stanzas feels like a betrayal of everything the soldiers were fighting for. You can hear the bitterness in the lines about running “like blurry rabbits” and eating whatever they could scavenge. That sense of frustration—the knowledge that they could win if only they had the chance—adds another layer of pain to an already brutal situation.
The final stanza circles back to the grim march, but now it’s heavier, weighed down by the memories of all the lives lost and the horrors seen along the way. The repeated references to graves and ruins make it clear that the road isn’t just a physical one—it’s a mental journey, one that leaves scars far deeper than the blisters and bruises.
This poem doesn’t try to glorify war or wrap it in heroics. Instead, it feels like a soldier’s attempt to make sense of what they’ve been through, even if the conclusion is just a resigned acceptance of how awful it all was. It’s ugly, honest, and relentless—just like the war it describes.