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[Page 79]

My father's father built a house -  a little house & bare
And there I brought my woman home - that heap of rubble  there !
The soil of France!      Fat fields & green that bred my blood and  bone!
Each wound that sears thy  bosom's pride burns deeper than my own
But yet there is one thing to say, one thing that pays for all
Whatever lot our bodies know Whatever fate  befall
We hold the line!   We hold it still!
My fields are no Man's Land
But the good God is debonair
And holds us by the hand.

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