Outposts scattered on the hill-tops,
Reached by little winding pathways,
Strands of wire forlornly dangling,
Limp and spiritless and sketchy,
As a stricken banjo’s strings are,
And instead of concrete dug-outs
Leaky shelters made of oak-leaves
Perched behind the barren hill-tops.
There it was that Tiadatha
Found at length a French lieutenant,