A SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY IN THE TRENCHES
Three centuries agone since Shakespeare died,
Since he was shrouded in good English ground,
His body to the earth, his spirit free,
His bones to lie for aye, his book to live:
Since he was shrouded in good English ground,
His body to the earth, his spirit free,
His bones to lie for aye, his book to live:
And here sit I, a tattered Corporal,
Reading me snatches from a tattered tome,
In fateful Flanders in a fetid trench,
While round me lie six lads in ravelled hose,
Torn kilts, and broken shoon, and lousy shirts,
Like his own Falstaff's ragged regiment.
Reading me snatches from a tattered tome,
In fateful Flanders in a fetid trench,
While round me lie six lads in ravelled hose,
Torn kilts, and broken shoon, and lousy shirts,
Like his own Falstaff's ragged regiment.
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