Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/The Song of the Soldier-born

The Song of the Soldier-born
Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me; Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; Go till the word is War — and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.

For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.

You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.

Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.

There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.

Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.

That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.

So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.