In the Trenches

AS I lay in the trenches Under the Hunter's Moon, My mind ran to the lenches Cut in a Wiltshire down.

I saw their long black shadows, The beeches in the lane, The grey church in the meadows And my white cottage—plain.

Thinks I, the down lies dreaming Under that hot moon's eye, Which sees the shells fly screaming And men and horses die.

And what makes she, I wonder, Of the horror and the blood, And what's her luck, to sunder The evil from the good?

'Twas more than I could compass, For how was I to think With such infernal rumpus In such a blasted stink?

But here's a thought to tally With t'other. That moon sees A shrouded German valley With woods and ghostly trees.

And maybe there's a river As we have got at home With poplar-trees aquiver And clots of whirling foam.

And over there some fellow, A German and a foe, Whose gills are turning yellow As sure as mine are so,

Watches that riding glory Apparel'd in her gold, And craves to hear the story Her frozen lips enfold.