Comrades
AS I was marching in Flanders
A ghost kept step with me—
Kept step with me and chuckled
And muttered ceaselessly:
“Once I too marched in Flanders,
The very spit of you,
And just a hundred years since,
To fall at Waterloo.
”They buried me in Flanders
Upon the field of blood,
And long I’ve lain forgotten
Deep in the Flemmish mud.
“But now you march in Flanders,
The very spit of me;
To the ending of the day’s march
I’ll bear you company.”
