The wind is cold and heavy
And storms are in the sky:
Our path across the heather
Goes higher and more high.

To right, the town we came from,
To left, blue hills and sea:
The wind is growing colder,
And shivering are we.

We drag with stiffening fingers
Our rifles up the hill.
The path is steep and tangled,
But leads to Flanders still. 

(by Edward Shanks)