Page:More songs by the fighting men, soldier poets, second series, 1917.djvu/72

 BRIAN HILL

Salonika in November

P above the grey hills the wheeling birds are calling,

Round about the cold grey hills in never-resting flight;

Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling,

Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the night.

Round about the grey hills rumbles distant thunder,

Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day,—

Grey guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder,

Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray.

Out among the islands twinkling lights are glowing,

Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the bay;

All along the broken road grey transport waggons going

Up to where the long grey guns roar and crash alway.

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