He played in the scrubby wastes,
Learned to love the wildwood fair,
Hid and hunted in the thickets,
Gorse and hawthorn clustered there.
Efts and carp haunted the waters
Of the rushy Long Pond there,
Sticklebacks and gudgeon thrilled him,
Unseen foxes sniffed the air.
When he heard the guns at Arras,
Did he yearn for elms and poplars?
Did he see the Common's greenness
Sorrel leaves and chestnuts fair?
Did he dream of Sioux and Huron,
Childhood games that he played there?
Did he think of knights and Pickwick,
Games of conkers that he shared?
As the shell that killed him landed,
Was the wildwood with him there?