The poem
(The French "Tommy").
Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum; But now we are here with a song and a cheer To serve at the sign of the drum. They put us in trousers of scarlet, In big sloppy ulsters of blue; In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, And they call us the little piou-piou. Piou-piou. The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, The swinging and singing piou-piou; And so with a rattle we march to the battle, The weary but cheery piou-piou.
Encore un petit verre de vin, Pour nous mettre en route; Encore un petit verre de vin Pour nous mettre en train.
They drive us head-on for the slaughter; We haven't got much of a chance; The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad To battle and die for La France. For some must be killed, that is certain; There's only one's duty to do; So we leap to the fray in the glorious way They expect of the little piou-piou. En avant!
The way of the gallant piou-piou, The dashing and smashing piou-piou; The way grim and gory that leads us to glory Is the way of the little piou-piou.
Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
To-day you would scarce recognise us, Such veterans war-wise are we; So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, So "crummy", yet gay as can be. We've finished with trousers of scarlet, They're giving us breeches of blue, With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, - Yet still we're the little piou-piou. Nous les aurons!
The jesting, unresting piou-piou; The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; The dying, defying piou-piou.
À la bayonette! Jusqu'a la mort! Sonnez la charge, clairons!