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?
