The Garden called Gethsemane |
In Picardy it was, |
And there the people came to see |
The English soldiers pass. |
We used to pass - we used to pass |
Or halt, as it might be, |
And ship our masks in case of gas |
|
The Garden called Gethsemane, |
It held a pretty lass, |
But all the time she talked to me |
I prayed my cup might pass. |
The officer sat on the chair, |
The men lay on the grass, |
And all the time we halted there |
I prayed my cup might pass. |
|
’t pass - it didn’t pass - |
It didn’t pass from me. |
I drank it when we met the gas |
|