How he died and why he died
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
Can never lift a hand.)

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
Until their tushes white
Take good hold in the army shirt,
And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men--
Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man's name--
That is reserved for his kind.

THE SPIES' MARCH

(BEFORE THE WAR)

('The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken
Napoleon.... Dr M---- died last week, and C---- on Monday, but some more
medicines are coming.... We don't seem to be able to check it at all....
Villages panicking badly.... In some places not a living soul.... But at
any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my
notes written up to date in case of accidents.... Death is a queer chap
to live with for steady company.' _Extracted from a private letter from
Manchuria._)

There are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders
we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of
his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugles
we rally,
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow
the Standard of Yellow!
_Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!_

Not where the squadrons mass,
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war--
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours--
Here is no place for a spy!

Trained to another use,
We march with colours furled,
Only c