TWO HUNDRED YEARS AFTER
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rudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night,(Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight),Along the pallid edge of the quiet skyHe watched a nosing lorry grinding on,And straggling files of men; when these were gone,A double limber and six mules went by,Hauling the rations up through ruts and mudTo trench-lines digged two hundred years ago.Then darkness hid them with a rainy scud,And soon he saw the village lights below. But when he'd told his tale, an old man saidThat _he'd_ seen soldiers pass along that hill;"Poor, silent things, they were the English deadWho came to fight in France and got their fill."
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