Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, <br />(Under Lord Derby’s Scheme). I died in hell— <br />(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, <br />And I was hobbling back; and then a shell <br />Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell <br />Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. <br /> <br />At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, <br />He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare: <br />For, though low down upon the list, I’m there; <br />‘In proud and glorious memory’ ... that’s my due. <br />Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: <br />I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed. <br />Once I came home on leave: and then went west... <br />What greater glory could a man desire?<br /><br />Siegfried Sassoon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memorial-tablet/
