That the guns were short of shell and very few,
By all Bernhardi's maxims you were surely bound to win,
There's the open town before you. Haste, my Lord, and enter in,
Or the War-Lord may have telegrams for you.
Then came the rainy winter, when the price was ever dearer,
Every time you neared the prize of which you dreamed,
Each day the Belfry faced you but you never brought it nearer,
Each night you saw it clearly but you never saw it clearer.
Ah, what a weary time it must have seemed!