Along the Front, from Ditches, Walls, and Fences.
Now, ’scaping from a distant patch of Smoke,
Shells from the Frenchmen’s Mortars round them broke.
And now their Field-Guns at the Column aiming,
Shot, after Shot, in peals of thunder coming.
Smells powder for the first time.
When John this skirmishing did first behold,
He thought the Little Light bobs desperate bold.
But when stray Bullets whistled by his Ear,