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[Page 281]

The Haunted Outpost

On outpost at night by Trunie's Tel,
In the ghostly hours, you remember well
The tales of goblins, who used to dwell
In olden day romances.
For the Tel itself is a grave yard grim,
And, as you watch by its northern rim
Out file the ghosts and spectres dim
To hold their mid-night dances.

You see dark forms of Infidels there,
Who were soldiers good with courage rare;
But who died by the sword of a Saxon fair -
A chivalrous Crusader.
And you feel your hair from your head-top straining;
As you see, through the stones their life-blood's draining
From mortal wounds, yet still they're straining
To fight this new invader.

But your wits fly back if you hear a rap,
Or down in the waddi a dry twig snap;
For you know that you're caught in a hopeless trap
If the Turkish host's advancing.
But at stand-to-arms near the break of day
Your courage returns and you feel quite gay -
Still you're more than contented to ride away
And leave the ghosts to their dancing.

Windy Willie.

No 2480
Sig R.C. Wilson
1st A.L.H. Regt.

 

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