nagged and bullied until I went to fight,
Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell –
called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
I was hobbling back; and then a shell
slick upon the duckboards : so I fell
the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
sermon-time while Squire is in his pew,
gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare;
low down upon the list,I'm there;
proud and glorious memory ... that's my due.
bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
suffered anguish that he never guessed.
I came home on leave: and then went west ...
greater glory could a man desire?