witzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop at
Givenchy."

"Oo's 'Ughie what dy'e call 'im of that place?"

"He used to be a goat-herd in Donegal once upon a time when cows were
kine and eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of giants."

"Wot!"

"I often met him there, going out to the pastures, with a herd of (p. 188)
goats before him and a herd of goats behind him and a salmon tied to
the laces of his brogues for supper."

"I wish we 'ad somethin' for supper," said Bill.

"Hold your tongue. He has lived for many thousands of years, has Wee
Hughie Gallagher of Dooran," I said, "but he hasn't reached the first
year of his old age yet. Long ago when there were kings galore in
Ireland, he went out to push his fortune about the season of
Michaelmas and the harvest moon. He came to Tirnan-Oge, the land of
Perpetual Youth which is flowing with milk and honey."

"I wish this trench was!"

"Bill!"

"But you're balmy, chum," said the Cockney, "'owitzers talkin' and
then this feller. Ye're pullin' my leg."

"I'm afraid you're not intellectual enough to understand the
psychology of a trench-howitzer or the temperament of Wee Hughie
Gallagher of Dooran, Bill."

"'Ad 'e a finance?"[2]

[Footnote 2: Fiancee.]

"A what?" I asked.

"Wot Goliath 'as, a girl at home." (p. 189)

"That's it, is it? Why do you think of such a thing?"

"I was trying to write a letter to-day to St. Albans," said Bill, and
his voice became low and confidential. "But you're no mate," he added.
"You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet."

"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked.

"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"

"About the stars--"

"Star-shells if you like."

"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later."

"Righto!"

I plunged into impromptu verse.

I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof,
My candle shines in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof,
Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war,
My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star.

"That's 'ot stuff," said Bill.

I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of an
approaching shell was heard; a messenger of death from a great German
gun out at La Bassee. This gun was no stranger to us; he often (p. 190)
played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew i