(GREAT WAR) SQUIRE nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell -- (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare: For, though low down upon the list, I'm there; 'In proud and glorious memory' ... that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he's never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR A MARLOW MADRIGAL by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY LORD EXMOUTH'S VICTORY AT ALGIERS, 1816 by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD MIDSUMMER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND by ROBERT BURNS |