  As I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleering spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me. The first said, “Here’s a right brave soldier That walks the dark unfearingly; Soon he’ll come back on a fine stretcher, And laughing for a nice Blighty.” The second, “Read his face, old comrade, No kind of lucky chance I see; One day he’ll freeze in mud to the marrow, Then look his last on Picardie.” Though bitter the word of these first twain Curses the third spat venomously; “He’ll stay untouched till the war’s last dawning Then live one hour of agony.” Liars the first two were. Behold me At sloping arms by one—two—three; Waiting the time I shall discover Whether the third spake verity. |
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