The Guards Came Through, and Other Poems

by Arthur Conan Doyle

That millions yet unborn may come and curse you as they gaze

At this token of your impotence and spite.

For shame, my Lord of Würtemberg! Across the Flemish Fen

See where the little army calls you.

It's just the old familiar line of fifty thousand men,

They've beat you once or twice, my Lord, but venture it again,

Come, try your luck, whatever fate befalls you.

GROUSING

“The army swore terribly in Flanders.”