To the lower Hall of Valhalla, to the heroes of no renown, Relieved from his spell at the listening-post, came Rifleman Joseph Brown. With never a rent in his khaki, nor smear of blood on his face, He flung his pack from his shoulders and made for an empty place. The Killer-men of Valhalla looked up from the banquet board At the unfouled breech of his rifle, at the unfleshed point of his sword, And the unsung dead of the trenches, the kings who have never a crown, Demanded his pass to Valhalla from Rifleman Joseph Brown. “_Who comes, unhit, to the party?_” A one-legged Corporal spoke, And the gashed heads nodded approval through the rings of the Endless Smoke. “_Who comes for the beer and th…
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