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.