Skirmish

Muster to the North at two
yelled the sergeant major all the way through
as a private limped past
on a leg and a half
w’ll take 'em ova the hill.

But death came a singing
at one forty-five and
froze my soul with a flash.

All a' my comrades were half on fire
the good sergeant major melted down to the ground
an' them runnin' backwards were good ’n splattered
With pieces o' flyin' friends.

I groped for my courage but it was gone
as was th' brave head of Davy Montaire
at one forty-eight a.m.

Th' poor little private made an ungodly roar
as Death went a chasin' 'im down,
an when th' gore 'n th' grit 'n th' red mud settled,
nary a bone made a sound.