I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking, we was in the know, Over the TOP to-morrer； boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave； that's tore it. Ah well, says Jimmy, an' 'e's seen some scrappin' There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen； Ye get knocked out； else wounded bad or cushy； Scuppered； or nowt except yer feeling mushy.
One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props1. An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz. Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty2 （Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty）, But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not； 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad； 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad. S. I. W. I will to the King, And offer him consolation3 in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience4, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him. W. B. Yeats.
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face； Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace, Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret5 Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . Brothers would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing6, and his hand Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch7. And death seemed still withheld8 For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.
He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew. Yet they were vile9. Death sooner than dishonour10, that's the style！ So Father said.
One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident？ Rifles go off . . . Not sniped？ No. （Later they found the English ball.）
It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury11 and scoff12 And life's half-promising, and both their riling.
With him they buried the muzzle13 his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother Tim died smiling.
