You can't describe the moral lift,
when in the fight your spirits weary
hears above the hostile fire,
Your own artillery.
Shells score the air like wavy hair
from a forward battery.
As regimental cannon crack
While from positions further back,
in bitter sweet song overhead
crashing discordantly
Division's pounding joins the attack;
Mother like she belches shell;
Glorious it flies, and well,
As, with a hissing screaming squall,
A roaring furnace, giving all,
she sears a path for the infantry....