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.