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And now the ugly bullets come pecking through the dust,
And no one wants to face them, but every beggar must;
So like a man in irons which isn’t glad to go,
They moves them off by companies uncommon stiff and slow.
Of all his five years schooling they don’t remember much
Except the not retreating, the step and keeping touch.
It looks like teaching wasted when they duck and spread and hop,
But if he hadn’t learned them they’d be all about the shop.
And now it’s ’Who goes backward?’ and now it’s ’Who comes on?’
And now it’s ’Get the doolies’, and now the captain’s gone;
And now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they hear
His voice, the same as barrack drill, a-schepherding the rear.
He’s just as sick as they are, his heart is like to split,
But he works them, works them, works them till he feels them take the bit;
The rest is holding steady till the watchful bugles play,
And he lifts them, lifts them, lifts them through the charge that wins the day.
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