THE LONG MARCH
Ho, comrades, on the mountain top the sun has touched the trees,Strike camp and march, the ringing bugles call;Swing lightly to the saddle with the rifle held at ease,—We may need it, we who ride to win or fall.What is living but a battle? What is dying but a rest?If there’s time to snatch a laurel ere we go,And to leave one hot kiss printed on the lips we love the bestWe have garnered all the fullest life can know.With our faces toward the morning, with her music in our hearts,And the sunrise on our banners bright with hope,Lo, our line of march is upward where the snowy summit starts,Press forward for the rough, untrodden slope.Through the pines the wind is laughing and the tall trees sway and swingLike the swaying crowds that cheer us as we ride;And our bugles wake the echoes till the far peaks shout and sing—Ah! but life is youth and love and battle-pride.
Halt, comrades, here the sun of noon falls straight upon the grass,And the droning locust drowns the bugle call;In the valley there below us see the harvesters that passWhere the gold of ripened grain is over all.Like a flag of truce the home-smoke waving in the summer windCalls the workers from the field for rest and cheer—When the battle din is over and the glory all behindIt were good to find such welcome kind and near.Who has clasped the hand of woman in the hour when life was hard,Who has loved a little child and called him son;Who has set himself with broken arms the homeland road to guard,Yearns for friendly board and hearth when all is done.Coin of peace is price of battle, glory but a rainbow setIn the clearing sky for sign of hope to come;As the road winds down the valley all the rest we may forget,Knowing life is work and love and joy of home.
Look, comrades, through the bending trees a gleam of silver light,Where the winding river goes to find the sea;Off-saddle,—here we bivouac the long appointed night,Till the Great Commander sounds reveille.All along the trail behind us in the grasses and the pinesLie the brothers who were weary e’re the night;And we shoulder close together now to hide the thinning lines,And there’s more than mist of years to dim our sight.Old ambitions burned to ashes sift their whiteness through the hairOf the gayest youth who faced the morning sun;And it’s more of scars than honors that the bravest comrades wear,As we count the cost and know the fight is done.Guidons flutter in the night wind and the campfires flicker low,We are silent with old memories deep and fond;Up, comrades, cheer the joy of life once more before we go—Knowing now ’tis love and service and a mighty hope Beyond.