As he went on his nightly raids With a brace of his Blighters, an N. G O. And a bagful of hand-grenades And the way he rattled and harried the Hun-- The deeds he did dare, and the risks he would run-- Were the gossip of the Bri- gades. HOW he'd stand stockstill as the trunk of a tree, With his face tucked down out of sight, When a flare went up and the other three Fell prone in the frightening light. How the German sandbags, that made them quake, Were the only cover he cared to take, But he'd eavesdrop there all night. MACHINE-GUNS, tapping a phrase in Morse, Grew hot on a random quest, And swarms of bullets buzzed down the course Like wasps from a trampled nest. Yet, that last night! They had just set off When he pitched on his face with a smothered cough, And a row of holes in his chest. HE left a letter. It saved the lives Of the three who ran from the Gas; A small enclosure alone survives, In Middlesex, under glass: Only the ribbon that left his breast On the day he turned and ran with the rest, And lied with a lip of brass! BUT the letters they wrote about the boy, From the Brigadier to the men! They would never forget dear Mr. Joy, Not look on his like again. Ermyntrude read them with dry, proud eye. There was only one letter that made her cry. It was from Sergeant Wren: THERE never was such a fear- less man, Or one so beloved as he. He was always up to some daring plan, Or some treat for his men and me. There wasn't his match when he went away; But since he got back, there has not been a day