Very lovely is Kyoto In the days of cherry blossom; Very lovely is the splendour Of the snow-wrapped Rocky Mountains; Lovely are the coral islands Strung like jade in the Pacific, And the palm trees of Malaya, Black against an orange sunset. Lovely are the long white breakers On the beach at Honolulu. Even as the Thames Embankment On a misty day in autumn. Gib. at dawn, Hong Kong at evening, Lights of Rio in the darkness, And the Golden Gate of ’Frisco, All of these are very lovely, Yet I know a sight still fairer, Doiran red and grey and yellow, Clustered on the Serbian hillside, Gleaming in the morning sunlight, Ever gazing, like Narcissus, Down upon its own reflection In the lake that laps its houses— Lovely when you first behold it, It becomes a trifle boring When week after week it greets you Every morning as the dawn breaks, And the cry “Stand down” is given When the sun comes stealing gently Sure as Fate above the hill-tops, And the Bulgar starts his sniping. Thus my Tiadatha saw it Every morning as the dawn broke, Through the livelong Serbian winter, Saw its church and battered houses, Saw the Bulgars’ lines before it, Snow-capped Beles to the Eastward, Grand Couronné to the Westward. All those winter months the Dudshires Picked and dug the Serbian hillside. Left their mark on Macedonia Like a tripper on a tree trunk, Slaved their souls out making trenches, Slaved their souls out making dug-outs, That they might be somewhat safer From the beastly little pipsqueaks, From the most unpleasant whizzbangs, From the great big five-point-niners, And the crumps the eight-inch how. sends. Then one day quoth Tiadatha, “I am sick of leafy bowers, I am sick of bivvy shelters; They are too darned cold for one thing, Much too narrow for another. I will also make a dug-out, Make myself a home to live in, Furnish it unto my liking, Coax perhaps a little comfort Even out of Macedonia.” So he called for Woggs, his batman, Bade him fetch a pick and shovel, Doffed his tunic, tie and collar, Set to work with Woggs in earnest. All day long they picked and shovelled, Pausing only when a crump came, Pausing only for a pipsqueak, Till poor Tiadatha’s back ached, Till his hands were badly blistered, And he wearied of the labour. Called in four stout private soldiers, Set them too upon the digging, Helped to fill and tie the sandbags, Helped to get them in position, Leaving spaces for a window And a little narrow doorway.