text: As I went up by Ovillers
     In mud and water cold to the knee,
  There went three jeering, fleering spectres,
     That walked abreast and talked of me.
  
  The first said, Heres a right brave soldier
     That walks the dark unfearingly;
  Soon hell come back on a fine stretcher,
     And laughing for a nice Blighty.
  
  The second, Read his face, old comrade,
     No kind of lucky chance I see;
  One day hell freeze in mud to the marrow,
     Then look his last on Picardie.
  
  Though bitter the word of these first twain
     Curses the third spat venomously;
  Hell stay untouched till the wars last dawning
     Then live one hour of agony.
  
  Liars the first two were. Behold me
     At sloping arms by one  two  three;
  Waiting the time I shall discover
     Whether the third spake verity.