Sweeping in conquering columns
To the banks of the vaunted Rhine—
Ever the first of the fighting first,
And the Lords of the Battle Line.
LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS.
Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,
What do you mean to me?
“We to the left mean hike and drill,
Trenches and mud and heat and chill—
And I to the right for the blood ye spill
Where the Marne runs to the sea.”
Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,
What is the tale ye tell?
“We to the left, of the long months spent
Where the somber seasons slowly blent—
And I to the right, of the ragged rent
That took so long to get well.”
Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,
What do you say to me?
“That ye would not trade us, master mine,
For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine,
That you are ours and we are thine
Through all the years to be.”
A TRIP-WIRE.
If you’re sneaking around on a night patrol,
Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole,
And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul—
It’s a trip-wire.
If you think there isn’t a thing around
Except the desolate, shell-torn ground,
And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound—
It’s a trip-wire.
If you know a murmur would give the alarm,
And you’ve smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm,
And then you go falling all over the farm—
It’s a trip-wire.
If it’s cold and it’s rainy and everything’s mud,
And you’re groping your way through a nice little flood,
And you stand on your head with an elegant thud—
It’s a trip-wire.