I found this piece of poetry on the wall of a smashed-up chateau, and I have copied it exactly as I found it. The writing was on a darkened wall, and while I copied it my guide held a torchlight up to it. The place passes as “Dead Cow Farm” on all official maps.
I've traveled many journeys in my one score years and ten,”
And oft enjoyed the company of jovial fellow men,
But of all the happy journeys none can compare to me
With the Red-Cross special night express from the trenches to the sea.
“It's Bailleul, Boulogne, Blighty, that's the burden of the song,
Oh, speed the train along.
If you've only half a stomach and you haven't got a knee,
You'll choke your groans and try to shout the chorus after me.
Bailleul, Boulogne, and Blighty, dear old Blighty “cross the sea.”