At Vimy's heights—we had not Vimy yet—
Pale Souchez's bones and Lens among the mines,
The tall pit-towers and dusky heaps of slag,
Until, like eagles on the mountain-crag
By strangers stirred, with hoarse indignant shrieks
Gunners emerged from some deep-delvéd lair
To chase the intruder from their sacred peaks
And cast him down to Ablain St. Nazaire.
And rumour said he roamed the rearward ways
In quiet seasons when no battle brewed;