A Private

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A Private

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors

Many a frozen night, and merrily

Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:

“At Mrs. Greenland’s Hawthorn Bush,” said he,

“I slept.” None knew which bush. Above the town,

Beyond The Drover, a hundred spot the down

In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps

More sound in France⁠—that, too, he secret keeps.