Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! What was that? Was it just the shiver Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land? It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, And gibber and whisper horrible things; For to every foot of this God-forsaken Zone of jeopard some horror clings. Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, That flattish mound in the noisome grass; You three big rats running free of its belly, Out of my way and let me pass! But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. That flood of magnificent orange yonder Is a battery blazing miles away. With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, And look and listen and love it all. God! What a life! But I must make haste now, Before the shadow of night be spent. It's little the time there is to waste now, If I'd do the job for which I was sent. My bombs are right and my clippers ready, And I wriggle out to the chosen place, When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! Who am I staring slap in the face? There in the dark I can hear him breathing, A foot away, and as still as death; And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle There in the gutter of No Man's Land; And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein." _NINE!_ Well, I cannot kill such a father, So I tie his hands and I leave him there. Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; And I get home safe with some light to spare. Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, Doing the same old song and dance; But oh! with the night--joy, glory, beauty: Over the parapet--Life, Romance! The Ballad of Soulful Sam You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; Out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam-- Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird!