The Password Poem by Anonymous British

Between the tall straight poplar trees the road stretch'd
white and long,
With carts and wire the barricade was made exceeding
strong,
The gendarmes grouped on either side, prepared to bar the
way,
And a draggled man in khaki paused, and wondered what
to say.
He said he'd lost his billet, and they bade him seek else-
where,
Orders, they said, were orders, and they couldn't pass him
there.
He said he warn't no German spy!
They smiled and quite
agreed;
But the road, they said, was barred to every type and
breed.
They asked him very pleasantly what fights he'd helped
to win.
'Wot me?', he said, 'I fought at Mons, and nearly got
done in.
Lord knows how many fights I've seen, there's la Bassee
and Laos,
But if you've got your orders, why it ain't no bloom in' use.'
The soldier turned to move away, the gendarmes whispered
fast,
'At Mons,' they said, 'he fought at Mons, Diable! let him
pass!'
So then and there the barricades to right and left they
drew,
And, wreathed in smiles, they called him back, and bowed
the beggar through.
Perhaps on winter evenings, forty years and more from
now,
That draggled man will hobble to the crowded' Horse
and Plough."

And when the ancient enters, he will get the corner seat,
''Ere be old Mons,' the folk will say, 'set down and
warm tha feet!'
Ay, Mons shall be the password still throughout his
honoured years;
And when he takes his place at length beside his warrior
peers,
When the last great fight is over, and there's no more work
to do,
At the portals of eternity, they'll bow the beggar through.