“Each in his nameless hole forever laid,
“The Kultur-spreaders of the Rhineland sleep.
“For them no more the Louvain fires shall burn,
“Or strafing Zepp’lins ply their evening care;
“No Yank machine-guns shall their fire return,
“Or Anzac bayonets drive them from their lair.
“Oft did the poilu sweep them from the field,
“Their line full oft the stubborn English broke:
“How frantic did they to the doughboys yield!
“How bowed their ranks to Foch’s giant stroke!