Where'er the fields ran thickliest with gore,
Of some stray bomber that belonged to none,
But none more fierce or flung a fairer bomb,
Who ran unscathed the gamut of the Somme
And followed Freyberg up the Beaucourt mile
With uncouth cries and streaming muddy hair;
But after, when they sought his name and style
And would have honoured him—he was not there.
But most he loved to lie upon Lorette
And, couched on cornflowers, gaze across the lines