Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,   
(Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell-    
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,   
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell   
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell  
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.   
   
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,   
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:   
For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;   
'In proud and glorious memory' ... that's my due.  
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:   
I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.   
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...   
What greater glory could a man desire?