In The Artillery.

We are moving on in silence,     Save for rattling iron and steel,     And a skirmish echoing round us,     Showering faintly, peal on peal.     Like a lion roars the North wind     As a-horse we sternly clank,     While beside the guns our men drop,     Slyly shot from either flank.     You are musing, love, and smiling     By the hearth-fire of the Mill,     While the tangled oaks are cracking     Boughs upon the windy hill.     I can see the moonlight shining     Over fields of frozen calm;     I can hear the chapel organ,     And the singing of the psalm.     Fare you well, then, English village,     Which of all I loved the most,     Where my ghost alone can wander     Once again, when life is lost.     Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset;     You will never utter wail     For the soldier dead who loved you     With these tears of no avail!     I can see your drowsy lashes     Lifting as you hear them read     Prayers in mercy for our souls' shrift     When we come to our last need.     I forgive you, matchless beauty,     Proudly conscious of your fame,     Loved by many a luckless youngster     Who will ne'er forget your name!     Merry, though so cold of answer,     With a laughing glance of steel,     How your face swept like a banner,     Blushing down the village reel!     As you dance before my vision     On this deadly foreign morn,     Death is charmed into the soothing     Of the love you chose to scorn.     We shall die - our hours are numbered -     As the sunlight dawns serene     Over yonder mountain ridges,     Rimming round this battle scene.     I shall die - few will return, dear;     I shall be of those who stay:     England sent us, but a handful,     Among hordes of heathen clay.     We will show the world how England     Has no dross to spend in war;     When she throws away her soldiers,     They are soldiers to the core.     You will wake to hear the twitter     Of the early sparrow's note:     I shall lie beneath the heavens,     With the death-grip at my throat!