Memorial Tablet

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,   (Under Lord Derby’s Scheme).

I died in hell—   (They called it Passchendaele).

My wound was slight,   And I was hobbling back; and then a shell   Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,   He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:   For, though low down upon the list,

I’m there;   ‘In proud and glorious memory’… that’s my due.

Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:   I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed.   Once I came home on leave: and then went west…   What greater glory could a man desire?