Memorial Tablet

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?