| |
| BACK from the line one night in June, | |
| I gave a dinner at Bethune— | |
| Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal | |
| Money could buy or batman steal. | |
| Five hungry lads welcomed the fish | 5 |
| With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; | |
| Asparagus came with tender tops, | |
| Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. | |
| Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, | |
| “They’ll put this in the history book.” | 10 |
| We bawled Church anthems in choro | |
| Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow, | |
| With drinking songs, a jolly sound | |
| To help the good red Pommard round. | |
| Stories and laughter interspersed, | 15 |
| We drowned a long La Bassée thirst— | |
| Trenches in June make throats damned dry. | |
| Then through the window suddenly, | |
| Badge, stripes and medals all complete, | |
| We saw him swagger up the street, | 20 |
| Just like a live man—Corporal Stare! | |
| Stare! Killed last May at Festubert. | |
| Caught on patrol near the Boche wire, | |
| Torn horribly by machine-gun fire! | |
| He paused, saluted smartly, grinned, | 25 |
| Then passed away like a puff of wind, | |
| Leaving us blank astonishment. | |
| The song broke, up we started, leant | |
| Out of the window—nothing there, | |
| Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, | 30 |
| Only a quiver of smoke that showed | |
| A fag-end dropped on the silent road. | |
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