But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; It's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there." Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, And onward he staggers in passion and pain. And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, And someone is shoutin' away on their right; And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, And it--_DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL._" And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee. The Lark From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, The guns have brayed without abate; And now the sick sun looks upon The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate As if it loathed to rise again. How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! From yon down-trodden gold of grain, The leaping rapture of a lark. A fusillade of melody, That sprays us from yon trench of sky; A new amazing enemy We cannot silence though we try; A battery on radiant wings, That from yon gap of golden fleece Hurls at us hopes of such strange things As joy and home and love and peace. Pure heart of song! do you not know That we are making earth a hell? Or is it that you try to show Life still is joy and all is well? Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain You beat into that bit of blue: Lo! we who pant in war's red rain Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins