Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/288

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A second time it came, still dim and strange,

A far "Hal oo-o-o Halloo-o-o!"

I wouldn't have believed such a ghostly cry

Could sound so clearly, too.

The sentries standing to the right and left

Neither spoke nor stirred.

They stood like stone. Can it be, I thought,

That nobody else has heard?

Then closer at hand, "Halloo-o-o! Halloo-o-o!"

Again the answering call.

"Quick!" said the sergeant as he pulled me down

In the shadow, close to the wall.

I dropped in a heap and none too soon;

For scarcely a rifle length away,

A man stood silent on the parados;

His face was a ghastly grey.

He carried a queer, old muzzle-loading gun;

The bayonet was dim with rust.

His top-boots were muddy, and his red uniform

Covered with blood and dust.

He waited for a moment, then waved his hand,

And they came in twos and threes:

Englishmen, Dutchmen, French cuirassiers,

Highlanders with great bare knees;

Pikemen, archers with huge crossbows,

Lancers and grenadiers;

Men in rusty armour, with battle-dented shields,

With axes and swords and spears.

Great blond giants with long, flowing hair

And limbs of enormous girth;

Yellow men with bludgeons, black men with knives,

From the wild, waste lands of the earth.

The one with the queer, old muzzle-loading gun

Jumped down with a light quick leap.

He was head and shoulders higher than the parapet,

Though the trench was six feet deep