UP above the grey hills the wheeling birds are

calling.

Round about the cold grey hills in never-resting

flight;

Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling.

Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the

night.

Round about the grey hills rumbles distant thunder,

Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day,—

Grey guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder.

Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray.

Out among the islands twinkling lights are glowing,

Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the

bay;

All along the broken road grey transport waggons

going

Up to where the long grey guns roar and crash

alway.

Up above the cold grey hills the wheeling birds are

crying.

Brother calls to brother, as they pass in restless

flight.

Lost souls, dead souls, voices of the dying.

Circle o'er the hills of Greece and wail into the

night.