We trenched, we trumpeted and drummed,

      And from our mortars tons of iron hummed

      Ath’art the ditch, the month we bombed

      The Town o’ Valencieën.

         ’Twas in the June o’ Ninety-dree

      (The Duke o’ Yark our then Commander been)

      The German Legion, Guards, and we

      Laid siege to Valencieën.

         This was the first time in the war

      That French and English spilled each other’s gore;

      – Few dreamt how far would roll the roar

      Begun at Valencieën!

         ’Twas said that we’d no business there

      A-topperèn the French for disagreën;

      However, that’s not my affair —

      We were at Valencieën.

         Such snocks and slats, since war began

      Never knew raw recruit or veteran:

      Stone-deaf therence went many a man

      Who served at Valencieën.

         Into the streets, ath’art the sky,

      A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën;

      And harmless townsfolk fell to die

      Each hour at Valencieën!

         And, sweatèn wi’ the bombardiers,

      A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears:

      – ’Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears

      For me at Valencieën!

         They bore my wownded frame to camp,

      And shut my gapèn skull, and washed en cleän,

      And jined en wi’ a zilver clamp

      Thik night at Valencieën.

         “We’ve fetched en back to quick from dead;

      But never more on earth while rose is red

      Will drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor said

      O’ me at Valencieën.

         ’Twer true.  No voice o’ friend or foe

      Can reach me now, or any livèn beën;

      And little have I power to know

      Since then at Valencieën!

         I never hear the zummer hums

      O’ bees; and don’ know when the cuckoo comes;

      But night and day I hear the bombs

      We threw at Valencieën.

         As for the Duke o’ Yark in war,

      There be some volk whose judgment o’ en is mean;

      But this I say – a was not far

      From great at Valencieën.

         O’ wild wet nights, when all seems sad,

      My wownds come back, as though new wownds I’d had;

      But yet – at times I’m sort o’ glad

      I fout at Valencieën.

         Well: Heaven wi’ its jasper halls

      Is now the on’y Town I care to be in..

      Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls

      As we did Valencieën!

      “Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,

      As though at home there were spectres rife?

      From first to last ’twas a proud career!

      And your sunny years with a gracious wife

      Have brought you a daughter dear.

      “I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,

      As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,

      Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.”

      – “Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,

      As it happens,” the Sergeant said.

      “My daughter is now,” he again began,

      “Of just such an age as one I knew

      When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van,

      On an August morning – a chosen few —

      Stormed San Sebastian.

      “She’s a score less three; so about was she—

      The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days.

      You may prate of your prowess in lusty times,

      But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays,

      And see too well your crimes!

      “We’d stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light

      Of burning towers, and the mortar’s boom:

      We’d topped the breach; but had failed to stay,

      For our files were misled by the baffling gloom;

      And we said we’d storm by day.

      “So, out of the trenches, with features set,

      On that hot, still morning, in measured pace,

      Our column climbed; climbed higher yet,

      Past the fauss’bray, scarp, up the curtain-face,

      And along the parapet.

      “From the battened hornwork the cannoneers

      Hove crashing balls of iron fire;

      On the shaking gap mount the volunteers

      In files, and as they mount expire

      Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

      “Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form,

      As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on;

      Till our cause was helped by a woe within:

      They swayed from the summit we’d leapt upon,

      And madly we entered in.

      “On end for plunder, ’mid rain and thunder

      That burst with the lull of our cannonade,

      We vamped the streets in the stifling air —

      Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed —

      And ransacked the buildings there.

      “Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white

      We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,

      Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,

      I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape —

      A woman, a sylph, or sprite.

      “Afeard she fled, and with heated head

      I pursued to the chamber she called her own; —

      When might