Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70’s [shell-swept slope],
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As [waiting and wincing] we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, “Stand to!”
And I heard someone cry, “Clear the front for the Guards!”