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.

Some say the war was fought and won

By This or That or Those —

But I, by heel and sunken arch

And blistered, bleeding toes.

Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles,

Through mire, slush and sleet,

To the glory of the rhythm

Of the poor old broken feet.