The March

by Jamie Walker
(St. Albans, England)

We march on the drill square all day
never knowing,that we be marching to a battlefield.

On the battlefield we stand in three ranks,
as we do on the drill square.

With the smell of smoke and the dead,
we march in range of our foe.
A volley of musket fire rips through our lines
but still we march.

With are bayonets we march through their lines,
with a cry that makes even the fearless tremble.

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