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GUN-TEAMS

Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their

tails are turned to the storm.

(Would you know them, you that groomed them

in the sleek fat days of peace,--

When the tiles rang to their pawings in the lighted

stalls and warm,--

Now the foul clay cakes on breeching-strap and

clogs the quick-release?)

The blown rain stings, there is never a star, the

tracks are rivers of slime.

(You must harness up by guesswork with a

failing torch for light,

Instep-deep in unmade standings, for it's active-service time,

And our resting weeks are over, and we move

the guns to-night.)

The iron tires slither, the traces sag; their blind

hooves stumble and slide;

They are war-worn, they are weary, soaked with

sweat and sopped with rain.

(You must hold them, you must help them, swing

your lead and centre wide

Where the greasy granite pave peters out to

squelching drain.)

There is shrapnel bursting a mile in front on the

road that the guns must take:

(You are nervous, you are thoughtful, you are

shifting in your seat,

As you watch the ragged feathers flicker orange

flame and break)--

But the teams are pulling steady down the

battered village street.

You have shod them cold, and their coats are long,

and their bellies gray with the mud;

They have done with gloss and polish, but the

fighting heart's unbroke.

We, who saw them hobbling after us down white

roads flecked with blood,

Patient, wondering why we left them, till we

lost them in the smoke;

Who have felt them shiver between our knees,

when the shells rain black from the skies,

When the bursting terrors find us and the lines

stampede as one;

Who have watched the pierced limbs quiver and

the pain in stricken eyes,

Know the worth of humble servants, foolish-faithful

to their gun!