The place—a little half deserted town in northern     France: The time—a time of carnage, of wanton strife and     hate: And I and my battalion on reserve a week or two Till they call us to the Front again to force the hands     of Fate. Just from the Commissary, the Salvation or the Y, I’ve got a bar of chocolate, some butter and some cake; A canteen full of milk, and eggs, from the old     farmhouse near by, And with this _tout ensemble_ you can see I’m sitting     jake. I’ve entered now a peasant’s house—an ancient,     kindly dame— Who’s seen me several times before, and knows just     what I wish: So the frying-pan is gotten out—the pewter fork and     knife— A big bowl and the skillet and a large, substantial     dish. And I’m breaking up the bar of chocolate in a mighty     bowl (The while the eggs are frying, “Sur le plat, oui, s’il     vous plait”), And pouring from my canteen’s gurgling mouth a     draught of milk, To expedite proceedings in a purely tactful way. And now the spluttering eggs are done, the chocolate’s     hot and rich; I have my feet beneath the board, the pewter weapons     near: A hunger from a front-line trench—the stomach of a     goat— And a battle-line that’s very far, though still the guns     ring clear. And thus, too full for utterance, I gently draw the     veil— So leave me, kindly reader, in my joy— And maybe you will understand why other dinners     pale, And in comparison with this, appear to clog and cloy. OVER THE TOP. We’ve soldiered many, many moons     In this old plugging war, And all the ills and all the thrills,     We’ve had ’em o’er and o’er. Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas—     Night work in No Man’s Land— And everything that calls for nerve,     Endurance, guts and sand. We’ve argued which we liked the _worst_—     Machine-guns, gas or shell. We’ve ruminated carefully—     And done it rather well. And after all our resumé     And cogitating bull, We’ve reached a clear decision,     Most amplified and full:— The greatest time in all the life     Of any living man— The mightiest moment of the Game—     The proudest, high élan; The thing we came three thousand miles     Across the seas to do— “The Day,” the splendid hour     That waits for me and you, Arrives—We spring into the wastes     Of land, ripped, roweled and barred— The battle-lust in brain and eye—     The weary jaw set hard; The rifle gripped in hands of steel,     Where, flashing in the sun, Sweep on our blazing bayonets,     The terror of the Hun. THE BATTLE MOTHER. Over the sodden trenches—     Over the skirmish line— High o’er the hole-torn fields and roads     Cometh a face to mine. Under the burning gas attack,     And the stench of the bursting shell, We hope we may live for her dear sake—     She who would wish us well. (She who has ever cherished us—     But when the hour came Choked back the tears of the faithful years,     As we left to play the game.)