Hiding in the shadows     Of the hills of French Lorraine, And bending south through rugged heights     To the land of sun again. Trenches, endless trenches,     Shod with high desire— All that man holds more than life,     And touched with patriot fire. Trenches, endless trenches,     Where tightening draws the cord ’Round the throat of brutal Kultur,     And its red and dripping sword. Trenches, endless trenches,     Bleached and choked with rain, Could ye speak what tales ye’d tell     Of honor, death and pain. Could ye speak, what tales ye’d tell     Of shame and golden worth, To the glory and damnation     Of the spawn of all the Earth. BARB-WIRE POSTS. Five o ’clock; the shadows fall     In mist and gloom and cloud; And No Man’s Land is a sullen waste,     Wrapped in a sodden shroud; And the click of Big Mac’s moving foot     Is a dangerous noise and loud. Ten o’clock; the wind moans low—     Each tree is a phantom gray: And the wired posts are silent ghosts     That move with a drunken sway; (But never a gleam in No Man’s Land     Till the dawn of another day). Twelve o ‘clock; the heavens yawn     Like the mouth of a chasm deep; And see—that isn’t the fence out there—     It’s a Boche—and he stoops to creep— I’ll take a shot—oh hell, a post—     (Oh God, for a wink o’ sleep). Two o ’clock; the cold wet fog     Bears down in dripping banks: Ah, here they come—the dirty hounds—     In swinging, serried ranks! Why don’t the automatics start? . . .     Or do my eyes play pranks? It doesn’t seem a column now,     But just two sneaking there: And one is climbing over,     While the other of the pair Is clipping at the wires     With exasperating care. (I’m sober as a gray-beard judge     I’m calm as the morning dew— I’m wide awake and I’ll stake     My eyes with the best of you; But I can’t explain just how or why     Posts do the things they do.) Three o’clock; they’re on the move—     Well, let the beggars come. . . . A crash — a hush — a spiral shriek—     And a noise like a big bass drum— (I hope that Hun shot hasn’t found     Our kitchen and the slum). .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . Five o’clock; the first faint streak     Of a leaden dawn lifts gray; And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts     That swagger, click and sway, And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin,     In a most unpleasant way. FEET. Some say this war was fought and won     With gleaming bayonets, That lift and laugh with Death’s own chaff     And leave no fond regrets: Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns     Where the first barrages meet, But I, by the poor old weary limping     Tired broken feet. Some say this war was fought and won     By the crawling, reeking gas; Some, by the flitting birdmen,     That dip and pause and pass: Some, by the splitting hand-grenades—     But I, I hear the beat Of the poor old faithful worn limping     Tired broken feet.