Page:Lollingdon Downs and other poems, Masefield, 1917.djvu/39

 THE FRONTIER

Would God the route would come for home.

My God, this place, day after day,

A month of heavy march from Rome.

This camp, the troopers' huts of clay,

The horses tugging at their pins,

The roaring brook and then the whins

And nothing new to do or say.

They say the tribes are up.

Who knows?

Our scouts say that they saw their fires.

Well, if we fight it's only blows

And bogging horses in the mires.

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