OUR JACK
Our Jack is dead, our jolly and simple Jack.
To him are fierce stars clay and snow is black.
Black blinding silences are all his hours,
He knows not birds nor laughter nor any flowers.
And when white winds come calling over the hill,
To him no white winds call, he lies so still.
And now, when all his singing pals come back,
He'll not leave France behind, our little Jack.