Twelve Months After

 Hullo! here’s my platoon, the lot I had last year.
 
‘The war’ll be over soon.
’ 
‘What ’opes?’ 
‘No bloody fear!’ 
Then, ‘Number Seven, ’shun! All present and correct.
’
They’re standing in the sun, impassive and erect.
 
Young Gibson with his grin; and Morgan, tired and white; 
Jordan, who’s out to win a D.
C.
M.
 some night; 
And Hughes that’s keen on wiring; and Davies (’79), 
Who always must be firing at the Boche front line.


.
 .
 .
 .
 
‘Old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!’ 
That’s what they used to sing along the roads last spring; 
That’s what they used to say before the push began; 
That’s where they are to-day, knocked over to a man.

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