"Mother" was Jim's last whisper. That was all. And died.
Brightest and bravest and best of us all—none could help but to love him—
And now ... he lies there under the hill, with a wooden cross above him.
That's where it gets me twisted. The rest of it I don't mind,
But it don't seem right for me to be off, and to leave old Jim behind.
Jim, just quietly sleeping; and hundreds and thousands more;
For graves and crosses are mighty thick from Quinn's Post down to the shore!
Better there than in France, though, with the Germans' dirty work:
I reckon the Turk respects us, as we respect the Turk;
Abdul's a good, clean fighter—we've fought him, and we know—