The French guns roll continuously

And our guns, heavy, slow;

Along the Ancre, sinuously,

The transport wagons go,

And the dust is on the thistles

And the larks sing up on high …

For it’s just nine weeks last Sunday

Since we took the Chepstow train,

And I’m wondering if one day

We shall do the like again;

for the four-point-two’s come screaming

Thro’ the sausages on high;

Dust and corpses in the thistles

Where the pas-shells burst like snow,

And the shrapnel screams and whistles

On the Bécourt road below,

And the High Wood bursts and bristles

Where the mine-clouds foul the sky …