Some say this war was fought and won
By the crawling, reeking gas;
Some, by the flitting birdmen,
That dip and pause and pass:
Some, by the splitting hand-grenades—
But I, I hear the beat
Of the poor old faithful worn limping
Tired broken feet.
Some say the war was fought and won
By This or That or Those—
But I, by heel and sunken arch
And blistered, bleeding toes.
Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles,
Through mire, slush and sleet,
To the glory of the rhythm
Of the poor old broken feet.
YOUR GAS-MASK.
When over your shoulders your “full-field” you fling,
And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing,
What is it you reach for, as outward you swing?
Your gas-mask.
If you head for a bath by the small river’s flow—
Though only a distance of fifty or so—
What is it you carefully grab ere you go?
Your gas-mask.
When in full marching-order, where mules might suffice,
And you count your equipment, each having its price,
What is it you feel for and count over twice?
Your gas-mask.
In morning and afternoon, evening and night—
In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight,
What is it you cherish and cling to so tight?
Your gas-mask.
What is it you never leave thoughtless behind?
What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind
As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind?
Your gas-mask.
SLUM AND BEEF STEW.
It’s a lot of dirty water
And some little dabs of spuds,
And dubious hunks of gristly meat
And divers other duds.