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Poem	When I’m killed, don’t think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me With the Intolerable Good. And there’s one thing that I know well, I’m damned if I’ll be damned to Hell! So when I’m killed, don’t wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don’t wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You’ll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you’ve read. So when I’m killed, don’t mourn for me, Shot, poor lad, so bold and young, Killed and gone — don’t mourn for me. On your lips my life is hung: O friends and lovers, you can save Your playfellow from the grave.
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