CHRISTIE
War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toilAnd battle-scarred they come—victorious!Exultingly we greet them—cleave the skyWith cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;We raise triumphant songs, and strew their pathTo do them homage—bid them ‘Welcome Home!’We laid our country’s honour in their handsAnd sent them forth undoubting. Said farewellWith hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame,To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.To-day they come again, and bring their gift—Of all earth’s gifts most precious—trust redeemed.We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,Words of all words the sweetest—‘Welcome Home!’O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts!They come, and lay their trophies at our feet;They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,Their country’s name upheld and glorified,And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.What guerdon have we for such service done?Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards;The victor’s laurel laid upon their browsAnd all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms.To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’A lesson to be guarded in our soulsWhile the land lives for whose dear sake they died—Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace,Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered,Shall be their country’s heritage, to holdEternal pattern to her living sons—What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,Are all the tribute left. Already theirsA Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears,Imperishable honour, endless rest.And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earthIs dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no prideCan soothe, no triumph-pæan can console—Ye surely will not fail them—will not shrinkTo perfect now your sacrifice of love?’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears,Lest echo of your grief should reach and breakTheir hard-won joy in Heaven, where God HimselfHas met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’Annie Rothwell Christie.
War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toilAnd battle-scarred they come—victorious!Exultingly we greet them—cleave the skyWith cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;We raise triumphant songs, and strew their pathTo do them homage—bid them ‘Welcome Home!’We laid our country’s honour in their handsAnd sent them forth undoubting. Said farewellWith hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame,To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.To-day they come again, and bring their gift—Of all earth’s gifts most precious—trust redeemed.We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,Words of all words the sweetest—‘Welcome Home!’O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts!They come, and lay their trophies at our feet;They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,Their country’s name upheld and glorified,And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.What guerdon have we for such service done?Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards;The victor’s laurel laid upon their browsAnd all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms.To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’A lesson to be guarded in our soulsWhile the land lives for whose dear sake they died—Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace,Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered,Shall be their country’s heritage, to holdEternal pattern to her living sons—What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,Are all the tribute left. Already theirsA Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears,Imperishable honour, endless rest.And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earthIs dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no prideCan soothe, no triumph-pæan can console—Ye surely will not fail them—will not shrinkTo perfect now your sacrifice of love?’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears,Lest echo of your grief should reach and breakTheir hard-won joy in Heaven, where God HimselfHas met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’Annie Rothwell Christie.
War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toilAnd battle-scarred they come—victorious!Exultingly we greet them—cleave the skyWith cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;We raise triumphant songs, and strew their pathTo do them homage—bid them ‘Welcome Home!’
We laid our country’s honour in their handsAnd sent them forth undoubting. Said farewellWith hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame,To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.To-day they come again, and bring their gift—Of all earth’s gifts most precious—trust redeemed.We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,Words of all words the sweetest—‘Welcome Home!’
O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts!They come, and lay their trophies at our feet;They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,Their country’s name upheld and glorified,And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.What guerdon have we for such service done?Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards;The victor’s laurel laid upon their browsAnd all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’
Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms.To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’A lesson to be guarded in our soulsWhile the land lives for whose dear sake they died—Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace,Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered,Shall be their country’s heritage, to holdEternal pattern to her living sons—What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,Are all the tribute left. Already theirsA Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears,Imperishable honour, endless rest.
And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earthIs dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no prideCan soothe, no triumph-pæan can console—Ye surely will not fail them—will not shrinkTo perfect now your sacrifice of love?’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears,Lest echo of your grief should reach and breakTheir hard-won joy in Heaven, where God HimselfHas met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’
Annie Rothwell Christie.