VIII.— EVE OF ASSAULT: INFANTRY GOING DOWN TO TRENCHES

Downward slopes the wild red sun.

We lie around a waiting gun;

Soon we shall load and fire and load.

But, hark! a sound beats down the road.

“‘ Ello! wot's up?” “Let's‘ ave a look!”

“Come on, Ginger, drop that book!”

“Wot an‘ ell of bloody noise!”

“It's the Yorks and Lancs, meboys!”

So we crowd: hear, watch them come —

One man drubbing on a drum,

A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,

Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing....

And above their rhythmic feet

A whirl of shrilling loud and sweet,

Round mouths whistling in unison;

Shouts: “‘ O's goin’ to out the‘ Un?

“Back us up, mates!” “Gawd, we will!”

“‘ Eave them shells at Kaiser Bill!”

“Art from Lancashire, melad?”

“Gi’‘ en a cheer, boys; make‘ en glad.”

“‘ Ip‘ urrah!” “Give Fritz the chuck.”

“Good ol’ bloody Yorks!” “Good-luck!”

“Cheer!”

I cannot cheer or speak

Lest my voice, my heart must break.