Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/62

 Douglas Leader Durkin

Give to the soul of a man of the north Faith in the blood of an unwithered race, Joy in the labour of infinite worth, Vigour that grows to an exquisite grace; Breathe on him tales of his grim-visaged sires, Teach him the curse of a kingdom in thrall, Fill him with hate for a nation of liars, Quicken his heart with a clarion's call;


 * Then, with the odds ten to one, bid him stay,
 * Face the hell-horrors or welter in blood,
 * Holding the line with the legions at bay,
 * And he'll die in his night or he'll live in his day,
 * But they'll know that he stood!


 * (Not a bang-up tale o' glory)
 * But a bit of good enough, sir, just the same—
 * How a poor soul, damned for fair,
 * Took his summons, made his prayer,
 * Cashed in sudden, closed his eyes and quit the game?

He was born in stormy weather when the stars were out of tune,
 * When the Lord of Heaven blundered in his ways,

Just a soulless rip o' Hades farrowed in a luckless moon
 * From a dame who loved the devil all her days.

There was never priest to bless him, there was never kiss of maid,
 * There was never virgin smile to wish him well;

There was just a throb of passion from a low-born drunken jade
 * Ere she signed her own eternal soul to Hell.

When he drank the milk of venom from a vampire's poisoned dugs,
 * When he lisped his first low curses to the skies,