Classic Poem

Holding on to North of France,
Battered from the Scheldt,
Singing songs as we advance —
Hear us on the Veldt!
If we wronged you, Brother Piet,
Dragged our flag in mud,
We have wiped and washed it out,
Washed it out in blood.
Wipe it out and wash it out,
Still by field and flood;
We shall wipe and wash it out —
Wash it out in blood.