Where fought the men of England round Ypres in
the rain, On the grim phiin of Flanders, whose earth is fed
with slaughter.
North-country fighting men from the mine and the
loom, Highlander and lowlander stood up to death and
doom. From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the
Lys river.
London men and Irish, Indian men and French, Charging with the bayonet, Firing in the trench, Fought in that furious fight, shoulder to shoulder. Leapt from their saddles to charge in fierce disorder, The Life Guards, mud and blood for the scarlet
and the plume, And they hurled back the foemen as the wind the
sea spume. From Bixschoote to Baecelaere and down to the Lys river.
But the huge Hun masses yet mounted more and
more, Like a giant wave gathering to whelm the sweet shore. While swift the exultant foam runs on before and over.
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