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’T was in a most unpleasant wood, The Hammerhead[1] by name,When we waited for three hours or more Under the Bosches’ fire—But I only got a beastly cold And some scratches from the wire.
Heigh-ho, how was I to knowThey’d wired the bottom of the ditch by which we had to goAnd that was how I somehow failed to get the D.S.O.,With ten, twenty, thirty, forty Bosches in a row.
I’m waiting now, my old grenade, Until the spring sets in,And the blinking old Division More pushing will begin.And when you come to bury me With a handy pick and spade,Just write, “Here lies a grenadier That loathed his old grenade.”
107
- ↑ Hammerhead Wood, Thiepval, where the Bosches nearly cut short a bright young life.
