Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Guards Came Through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Men of the Twenty-first, Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak from our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food After a day and a night. God! shall I ever forget? Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it, sticking it yet, Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done; Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun. Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it, sticking it yet. Never a message of hope, Never a word of cheer, Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull, dead plain in our rear; Always the shriek of the shell, Always the roar of the burst, Always the tortures of Hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck, the guns, and the Boche.