And when the first white streak of dawn
Told “Stand-to” was begun,
We stumbled back and took our posts
To wait our friend the Hun.
The Hun did not appear, but gas
Thick clothed both hill and dale
In clouds and sheets of dead-man’s drab,
And down in the deepest vale—
With perfect poise and nonchalance,
Sang-froid and savoir-faire,
Browsed that fool mule, capaciously,
With never thought or care.
INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR.
They shall tell of the Arms resplendent—
The men who dared the air;
They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns
Where the far horizons flare:
They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs—
Each rear and flanking drive—
And the song of the Service of Supply,
That kept them all alive.
And when they seem to have finished,
And ye think that the chant is done,
They will tell the tale of the tramping men
In the sweat of a torrid sun.
They will tell the tale of the marching men
Who plod the live-long night,
To reach the crest at the break o’ dawn
When the Nations go to fight.
They will tell the tale of the tired men
Beneath a straining load;
Mile by mile with lunging step
And glassy stare on the road.
They will tell the tale of the front-line trench,
And the one cold meal at night,
And the terrible song of the bursting shells,
And the flares’ uncanny light.
They will tell the tale of the moving ranks
When the zero hour lifts,
And the khaki lines leap forward
In the face of the steel-shod drifts.
Where the great shots split asunder,
And clutter hill and plain
With the weary bodies of the men
Who may not march again.
And so for a wide World’s wonder,
And the ages yet to be,
They will sing in deathless numbers
The song of the Infantry.
They will slowly close the volume—
The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover,
Whose letters are flaming gold.