Killed

Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet

He would look over the parapet;

And something smacked him in the head,

And he lay down as dead as dead.

He sluttered down, all proud and grim,

And we set to and buried him;

All night he lay and took his rest

With lumps of Flanders on his breast.

All day he lay in Flanders ground

And rested, rested, good and sound;

But when the dog-star glittered clear

He calls, "By Jove, it's dark down here!"

"Sergeant, ain't I for rounds?" sings he,

"And where's the bally Company?"

And he was answered, with respect,

"Here, sir -- all present and correct!"

And -- sure as I'm a man -- at night

He comes along the trench, as white

And cheerful as the blessd saints,

To see if there was "no complaints."

They cannot quieten that boy's ghost,

He'll have no truck with no "Last Post,"

They mark him "Killed," but you may swear

He's with us, be it foul or fair.

He goes before us like young fire,

A soldier of his soul's desire;

Through the hell-reek that smothers us,

He fathers us and mothers us.

When we have pushed the German swine

Across the pretty river Rhine,

Maybe he'll bide where he was spent

And lie down happy and content.