In Flemish clay, dug in,

Keen scouts on watch,

As we steal the farmer’s turnips.

Hidden in our warren, scurrying about,

Ears to the ground to hear the hunter’s shovel beneath,

Ears to the sky to hear the dread death from above;

First eggs of steel, then hawks of wood,

Keen leaden teeth on their sharpened bills.

Ah, the briars that snag us are sharp!

Ah, the death that awaits us is swift

As rifles roar and hounds bay

across the sodden fields!

We die, quick as we multiply.