And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; You never heed; the air is metal-hot, And all alive with little flicking wings. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ You see the fellows fall; Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ The heavens vomit death; And vicious death is besoming the ground. You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Oh, War's a rousing game! Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ It's odd! You have no fear. Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Barbed wire all trampled down. The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; A ragged ditch--the Hun first line at last. All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ There's nothing else to do. More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (Your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). You glare around. You think you're all alone. But no; your chums come surging left and right. The nearest chap flops down without a groan, His face still snarling with the rage of fight. Ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, Only a little more so, more "laid out"; More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. Now for the third, and there your job is done, _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ You never stop to think. Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. The acrid air is full of cracking whips. You wonder how it is you're going still. You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill. Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels. _HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!_ You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . .