Very soon my Tiadatha, Now become a swanking captain, Found the Doya Tepe sector Was indeed the silver lining To the cloud of Macedonia, And one clear September morning, On a hill above Popovo, High above Popovo village, Gazed upon the scene before him, Thought it very good to look on. Down below along the foothills, Ran the line of Dudshire trenches, And the wire wound like a ribbon, Like a long brown crinkled ribbon, Up and down the wooded hillsides, Up and down the wooded gullies. There was blue smoke curling upwards From a company headquarters, And he saw some soldiers bathing In a pool beside the village— From below the voices reached him, Clear as bells their voices reached him In the honey-coloured sunshine. And beyond the line of trenches, Just beyond the wooded foothills Lay the smiling open valley, Varied as a landscape target, Threaded by the Hodza Suju, By the sandy Hodza river, Bright as mackerel in the sunshine, Brighter than a string of opals; White against the emerald background, Ruined villages were dotted With their vineyards and their orchards: Brest and Nikolic and Palmis, Bulamac and Akindzali. There were woods and shady copses And a line of tidy poplars, Here a mill with tangled creepers, There a disused Turkish fountain, And the long straight line of railway, With a few old trucks upon it, Where in happier days the trains ran Up and down the Struma valley, To and from Constantinople. And five miles across the valley Rose the Belashitza Mountains, Rose the Beles grim and lofty, Mighty boundary of Bulgaria. And below along the foothills Ran the trenches of the Bulgar, While a little to the westward Lay the great round Lake of Doiran, Gleaming like a polished mirror. It was very fair to look on, Fair to gaze on from a distance, Yet it struck a note of sadness In the heart of Tiadatha. Not a head of sheep or cattle In that green and pleasant valley, Not a single vineyard tended, Not a single orchard tended, Not a sign of habitation In a single battered village, Save sometimes the smoke uprising From the cookhouse of an outpost. Yet the scene was fair to look on, Very like a landscape target, And the Generals when they saw it Crowed with joy and beamed with pleasure— “What a place for open warfare, What a place for raids!” they chirruped, Safely perched upon the hill-tops. Tiadatha sat and pondered, Pondered long upon the hillside, Heaved a sigh of satisfaction When he thought that he was sitting Well in view of all the Bulgars, Knowing that they could not reach him With their field-guns on the Beles.