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Gertrude Bartlett
THE GUNNERS
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��HO may the victors be, not yet we know ; Our care, all sights set true, the shell in place, The flame outleaping, sending death apace To check the rush of the oncoming foe. And then, as sounds of thund rous hoof-beats grow, With grind of burdened limber wheels at race, We hear a shriek the air brings nigh, and face Our instant doom. Then tumults cease ; and lo !
The shining dead men, rank on rank, appear, Their voices raised in one great cry, to hail The gunners prone, for whom reveille clear Their silver bugles blow in morning pale. Your battle, God ! to make men great ; and here, In that cause, dead, unvanquished, we prevail.
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