I wandered up to Beaucourt, I took the river track,
And saw the lines we lived in before the Boche went back.
But peace was now in pottage, the front was far ahead,
The front had journeyed eastward, and only left the dead.

And I thought, how long we lay there, and watched across the wire,
As the guns roared round the valley and set the skies afire.
But now there are home sin Hamel, and tents in the Vale of Hell,
And a camp at Suicide Corner, where half a regiment fell.

The new troops follow after, and tread the land we won,
To them 'tis so much hillside rewrested from the Hun.
We can only watch in silence that sullen mile of mud;
The shell-holes hold our history, and most of them our blood.

Here at the head of Peche Street 'twas death to show your face,
To me it seemed like magic to linger in that place.
For me how many spirits hung around those Kentish caves;
But the new men see no spirits; they only see the graves.

I found the half-dug ditches we fashioned for the fight
We lost a score of men here - young James was killed that night.
I saw the star shells staring, I heard the bullets hail,
But the new troops pass unheeding; they never heard the tale.

I crossed the blood-red ribbon that once was No Man's land,
I saw the misty daybreak and creeping minute hand
And there the lads went over, and there was William shot,
And there was Harmsworth lying, but the new men knew them not.

And I said, there is still the river, and still the stiff, stark trees
To treasure here our story, but there are only these.
But under the white wood crosses, the dead men answered low:
"The new men know not Beaucourt, but we are here; we know."