OVER THE TOP.
We’ve soldiered many, many moons
In this old plugging war,
And all the ills and all the thrills,
We’ve had ’em o’er and o’er.
Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas—
Night work in No Man’s Land—
And everything that calls for nerve,
Endurance, guts and sand.
We’ve argued which we liked the worst—
Machine-guns, gas or shell.
We’ve ruminated carefully—
And done it rather well.
And after all our resumé
And cogitating bull,
We’ve reached a clear decision,
Most amplified and full:—
The greatest time in all the life
Of any living man—
The mightiest moment of the Game—
The proudest, high élan;
The thing we came three thousand miles
Across the seas to do—
“The Day,” the splendid hour
That waits for me and you,
Arrives—We spring into the wastes
Of land, ripped, roweled and barred—
The battle-lust in brain and eye—
The weary jaw set hard;
The rifle gripped in hands of steel,
Where, flashing in the sun,
Sweep on our blazing bayonets,
The terror of the Hun.