Page:Marching Men - War Verses (1917).pdf/17



OULD God that mine were better luck
 * Than falls to the lot of woman,

In these great days with the world ablaze
 * And Britain's face to the foeman;

In these great days when the hour has struck Calling for every ounce of pluck— God help me not to curse my luck
 * That I was born a woman!

Oh, for the stinging lash of the spray,
 * Green waves and wild commotion,

The lowering fogs where grim sea-dogs
 * Stalk ever the Northern ocean;

Watching by night, watching by day, Ribbons of smoke in the offing grey, Holding the Hun and his hordes at bay
 * Far in the wild North ocean!

Oh, for the airman's sinuous flight,
 * The great wings climbing, curving,

To desperate deeds as earth recedes
 * One's tightened pulses nerving,