ON VIMY RIDGE.
To B.S.B., July 11th.
On Vimy Ridge I sit at rest
With Loos and Lens outspread below;
An A.D.C.—the very best—
Expounds the panoramic show;
Lightly I lunch, and never yet
Has quite so strong an orchestration
Supplied the music while I ate
My cold collation.
Past Avion through the red-roofed town
There at our feet our white line runs;
Fresnoy's defences, smoking brown,
Shudder beneath our shattering guns;
Pop-pop!—and Archie's puffs have blurred
Some craft engaged to search the Bosch out—
I hold my breath until the bird
Signals a wash-out.
Scarce I believe the vision real,
That here for life and death they fight;
A "Theatre of War," I feel,
Has set its stage for my delight,
Who occupy, exempt from toll,
This auditorium, green and tufty,
Guest of the Management and sole
Object in mufti.
And now along the fretted ground
Where Canada's "BYNG Boys" stormed their way,
I go conducted on the round
That GEORGE OF WINDSOR did to-day;
Immune he trod that zone of lead,
And how should I, who just write verses,
Hope to attract to my poor head
Their "Perishing Percies"?
Bapaume had nearly been my tomb;
And greatly flattered I should be
If I could honestly assume
The beastly shell was meant for me;
But though my modesty would shun
To think this thought (or even say it),
I feel I owe the KAISER one
And hope to pay it.
O.S.