ZION

Through learned and laborious yearsThey set themselves to findFresh terrors and undreamed-of fearsTo heap upon mankind.All that they drew from Heaven aboveOr digged from earth beneath,They laid into their treasure-troveAnd arsenals of death:While, for well-weighed advantage sake,Ruler and ruled alikeBuilt up the faith they meant to breakWhen the fit hour should strike.They traded with the careless earth,And good return it gave;They plotted by their neighbour's hearthThe means to make him slave.When all was ready to their handThey loosed their hidden sword,And utterly laid waste a landTheir oath was pledged to guard.Coldly they went about to raiseTo life and make more dreadAbominations of old days,That men believed were dead.They paid the price to reach their goalAcross a world in flame;But their own hate slew their own soulBefore that victory came.ZIONThe Doorkeepers of Zion,They do not always standIn helmet and whole armour,With halberds in their hand,But, being sure of Zion,And all her mysteries,They rest awhile in Zion,Sit down and smile in Zion;Ay, even jest in Zion;In Zion, at their ease.The Gatekeepers of Baal,They dare not sit or lean,But fume and fret and postureAnd foam and curse between;For being bound to Baal,Whose sacrifice is vain.Their rest is scant with Baal,They glare and pant for Baal,They mouth and rant for Baal,For Baal in their pain!But we will go to Zion,By choice and not through dread,With these our present comradesAnd those our present dead;And, being free of ZionIn both her fellowships,Sit down and sup in Zion—Stand up and drink in ZionWhatever cup in ZionIs offered to our lips!LORD ROBERTS1914He passed in the very battle-smokeOf the war that he had descried.Three hundred mile of cannon spokeWhen the Master-Gunner died.He passed to the very sound of the guns;But, before his eye grew dim,He had seen the faces of the sonsWhose sires had served with him.He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted eachWith the old sure word of praise;And there was virtue in touch and speechAs it had been in old days.So he dismissed them and took his rest,And the steadfast spirit went forthBetween the adoring East and WestAnd the tireless guns of the North.Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,Flawless in faith and fame,Whom neither ease nor honours movedAn hair's-breadth from his aim.Never again the war-wise face,The weighed and urgent wordThat pleaded in the market-place—Pleaded and was not heard!Yet from his life a new life springsThrough all the hosts to come,And Glory is the least of thingsThat follow this man home.THE QUESTION1916Brethren, how shall it fare with meWhen the war is laid aside,If it be proven that I am heFor whom a world has died?If it be proven that all my good,And the greater good I will make,Were purchased me by a multitudeWho suffered for my sake?That I was delivered by mere mankindVowed to one sacrifice,And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,But dying with open eyes?That they did not ask me to draw the swordWhen they stood to endure their lot—That they only looked to me for a word,And I answered I knew them not?If it be found, when the battle clears,Their death has set me free,Then how shall I live with myself through the yearsWhich they have bought for me?Brethren, how must it fare with me,Or how am I justified,If it be proven that I am heFor whom mankind has died,If it be proven that I am heWho being questioned denied?THE CHOICE1917(THE AMERICAN SPIRIT SPEAKS)To the Judge of Right and WrongWith Whom fulfilment liesOur purpose and our power belong,Our faith and sacrifice.Let Freedom's Land rejoice!Our ancient bonds are riven;Once more to us the eternal choiceOf Good or Ill is given.Not at a little cost,Hardly by prayer or tears,Shall we recover the road we lostIn the drugged and doubting years.But, after the fires and the wrath,But, after searching and pain,His Mercy opens us a pathTo live with ourselves again.In the Gates of Death rejoice!We see and hold the good—Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choiceWith Freedom's brotherhood!Then praise the Lord Most HighWhose Strength hath saved us whole,Who bade us choose that the Flesh should dieAnd not the living Soul!To the God in Man displayed—Where e'er we see that Birth,Be love and understanding paidAs never yet on earth!To the Spirit that moves in Man,On Whom all worlds depend,Be Glory since our world beganAnd service to the end!THE HOLY WAR1917('For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto'—Bunyan'sHoly War)A tinker out of Bedford,A vagrant oft in quod,A private under Fairfax,A minister of God—Two hundred years and thirtyEre Armageddon cameHis single hand portrayed it,And Bunyan was his name!He mapped, for those who follow,The world in which we are—'This famous town of Mansoul'That takes the Holy WarHer true and traitor people,The gates along her wall,From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,John Bunyan showed them all.All enemy divisions,Recruits of every class,And highly-screened positionsFor flame or poison-gas,The craft that we call modern,The crimes that we call new,John Bunyan had 'em typed and filedIn Sixteen Eighty-twoLikewise the Lords of LoosenessThat hamper faith and works,The Perseverance-Doubters,And Present-Comfort shirks,With brittle intellectualsWho crack beneath a strain—John Bunyan met that helpful setIn Charles the Second's reign.Emmanuel's vanguard dyingFor right and not for rights,My Lord Apollyon lyingTo the State-kept Stockholmites,The Pope, the swithering Neutrals,The Kaiser and his Gott—Their rôles, their goals, their naked souls—He knew and drew the lot.Now he hath left his quarters,In Bunhill Fields to lie.The wisdom that he taught usIs proven prophecy—One watchword through our armies,One answer from our lands—'No dealings with DiabolusAs long as Mansoul stands.A pedlar from a hovel,The lowest of the low,The father of the Novel,Salvation's first Defoe,Eight blinded generationsEre Armageddon came,He showed us how to meet it,And Bunyan was his name!THE HOUSES(A SONG OF THE DOMINIONS)1898'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.For my house and thy house no help shall we findSave thy house and my house—kin cleaving to kind:If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon,If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there beOf headship or lordship, or service or fee?Since my house to thy house no greater can sendThan thy house to my house—friend comforting friend;And thy house to my house no meaner can bringThan my house to thy house—King counselling King.RUSSIA TO THE PACIFISTSGod rest you, peaceful gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,But—leave your sports a little while—the dead are borne this way!Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there?Singing:—Break ground for a wearied hostThat have no ground to keep.Give them the rest that they covet most,And who shall next to sleep, good sirs,In such a trench to sleep?God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pass.We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this PrideThree hundred years it flourished—in three hundred days it died.Singing:—Pour oil for a frozen throng,That lie about the ways.Give them the warmth they have lacked so longAnd what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,On such a pyre to blaze?God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.Singing:—Break bread for a starving folkThat perish in the field.Give them their food as they take the yoke …And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,For such a bribe to yield?God rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?'Twixt the summer and the snow—seeding-time and frost—Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!Singing:—Let down by the foot and the head—Shovel and smooth it all!So do we bury a Nation dead …And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,With your good help to fall?THE IRISH GUARDS1918We're not so old in the Army List,But we're not so young at our trade,For we had the honour at FontenoyOf meeting the Guards' Brigade.'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,And Lee that led us then,And after a hundred and seventy yearsWe're fighting for France again!Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!Ireland no more!The fashion's all for khaki now,But once through France we wentFull-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,The English—left at GhentThey're fighting on our side to-day.But, before they changed their clothes,The half of Europe knew our fame,As all of Ireland knows!Old Days! The wild geese are flying,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's memory undying,And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,The ancient days come back no moreThan water under the bridgeBut the bridge it stands and the water runsAs red as yesterday,And the Irish move to the sound of the gunsLike salmon to the sea.Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!We're not so old in the Army List,But we're not so new in the ring,For we carried our packs with Marshal SaxeWhen Louis was our King.But Douglas Haig's our Marshal nowAnd we're King George's men,And after one hundred and seventy yearsWe're fighting for France again!Ah, France! And did we stand by you,When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?Ah, France! And will we deny youIn the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!Ireland no more!A NATIVITY1916The Babe was laid in the MangerBetween the gentle kine—All safe from cold and danger—'But it was not so with mine.(With mine! With mine!)'Is it well with the child, is it well?'The waiting mother prayed.'For I know not how he fell,And I know not where he is laid.'A Star stood forth in Heaven,The watchers ran to seeThe Sign of the Promise given—'But there comes no sign to me.(To me! To me!)'Mychild died in the dark.Is it well with the child, is it well?There was none to tend him or mark,And I know not how he fell.'The Cross was raised on high;The Mother grieved beside—'But the Mother saw Him dieAnd took Him when He died.(He died! He died!)'Seemly and undefiledHis burial-place was made—Is it well, is it well with the child?For I know not where he is laid.'On the dawning of Easter DayComes Mary Magdalene;But the Stone was rolled away,And the Body was not within—(Within! Within!)'Ah, who will answer my word?'The broken mother prayed.'They have taken away my Lord,And I know not where He is laid.'The Star stands forth in Heaven.The watchers watch in vainFor a Sign of the Promise givenOf peace on Earth again—(Again! Again!)'But I know for Whom he fell'—The steadfast mother smiled'Is it well with the child—is it well?It is well—it is well with the child!'EN-DOR'Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor'1SamuelXXVIII7The road to En-dor is easy to treadFor Mother or yearning Wife.There, it is sure, we shall meet our DeadAs they were even in life.Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in storeFor desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark—Hands—ah God!—that we knew!Visions and voices—look and heark!—Shall prove that our tale is true,And that those who have passed to the further shoreMay be hailed—at a price—on the road to En-dor.But they are so deep in their new eclipseNothing they say can reach,Unless it be uttered by alien lipsAnd framed in a stranger's speech.The son must send word to the mother that bore,Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.And not for nothing these gifts are shownBy such as delight our dead.They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groanEre the eyes are set in the head,And the voice from the belly begins. ThereforeWe pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.Even so, we have need of faithAnd patience to follow the clue.Often, at first, what the dear one saithIs babble, or jest, or untrue.(Lying spirits perplex us soreTill our loves—and our lives—are well known at En-dor)…Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest roadAnd the craziest road of all!Straight it runs to the Witch's abode,As it did in the days of Saul,And nothing has changed of the sorrow in storeFor such as go down on the road to En-dor!A RECANTATION(TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)What boots it on the Gods to call?Since, answered or unheard,We perish with the Gods and allThings made—except the Word.Ere certain Fate had touched a heartBy fifty years made cold,I judged thee, Lyde, and thy artO'erblown and over-bold.But he—but he, of whom bereftI suffer vacant days—He on his shield not meanly left—He cherished all thy lays.Witness the magic coffer stockedWith convoluted runesWherein thy very voice was lockedAnd linked to circling tunes.Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,That decked his shelter-place.Life seemed more present, wrote the child,Beneath thy well-known face.And when the grudging days restoredHim for a breath to home,He, with fresh crowds of youth, adoredThee making mirth in Rome.Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts,Loyal and loud, who bowTo thee as Queen of Songs—and ghosts—For I remember howNever more rampant rose the HallAt thy audacious lineThan when the news came in from GaulThy son had—followed mine.But thou didst hide it in thy breastAnd, capering, took the bruntOf blaze and blare, and launched the jestThat swept next week the front.Singer to children! Ours possessedSleep before noon—but thee,Wakeful each midnight for the rest,No holocaust shall free.Yet they who use the Word assigned,To hearten and make whole,Not less than Gods have served mankind,Though vultures rend their soul.MY BOY JACK'Have you news of my boy Jack?'Not this tide.'When d'you think that he'll come back?'Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Has any one else had word of him?'Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind—Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!THE VERDICTS(JUTLAND)Not in the thick of the fight,Not in the press of the odds,Do the heroes come to their height,Or we know the demi-gods.That stands over till peace.We can only perceiveMen returned from the seas,Very grateful for leave.They grant us sudden daysSnatched from their business of war;But we are too close to appraiseWhat manner of men they are.And, whether their names go downWith age-kept victories,Or whether they battle and drownUnreckoned, is hid from our eyes.They are too near to be great,But our children shall understandWhen and how our fateWas changed, and by whose hand.Our children shall measure their worth.We are content to be blindBut we know that we walk on a new-born earthWith the saviours of mankind.MESOPOTAMIA1917They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slainIn sight of help denied from day to day:But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,Are they too strong and wise to put away?Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide—Never while the bars of sunset hold:But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?When the storm is ended shall we findHow softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to powerBy the favour and contrivance of their kind?Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,Even while they make a show of fear,Do they call upon their debtors, and take council with their friends,To confirm and re-establish each career?Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo—The shame that they have laid upon our race:But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,Shall we leave it unabated in its place?THE HYÆNASAfter the burial-parties leaveAnd the baffled kites have fled,The wise hyænas come out at eveTo take account of our dead.How he died and why he diedTroubles them not a whit.They snout the bushes and stones asideAnd dig till they come to it.They are only resolute they shall eatThat they and their mates may thrive,And they know that the dead are safer meatThan the weakest thing alive.(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,And a child will sometimes stand;But a poor dead soldier of the KingCan never lift a hand.)They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirtUntil their tushes whiteTake good hold in the army shirt,And tug the corpse to light,And the pitiful face is shewn againFor an instant ere they close;But it is not discovered to living men—Only to God and to thoseWho, being soulless, are free from shame,Whatever meat they may find.Nor do they defile the dead man's name—That is reserved for his kind.THE SPIES' MARCH(BEFORE THE WAR)('The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon… Dr M—— died last week, and C—— on Monday, but some more medicines are coming… We don't seem to be able to check it at all… Villages panicking badly… In some places not a living soul… But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents… Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.'Extracted from a private letter from Manchuria.)There are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugles we rally,From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!Not where the squadrons mass,Not where the bayonets shine,Not where the big shell shout as they passOver the firing-line;Not where the wounded are,Not where the nations die,Killed in the cleanly game of war—That is no place for a spy!O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours—Here is no place for a spy!Trained to another use,We march with colours furled,Only concerned when Death breaks looseOn a front of half a world.Only for General DeathThe Yellow Flag may fly,While we take post beneath—That is the place for a spy.Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions—Then will be work for a spy!The dropping shots begin,The single funerals pass,Our skirmishers run in,The corpses dot the grass!The howling towns stampede,The tainted hamlets die.Now it is war indeed—Now there is room for a spy!O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands—What is the work for a spy?(Drums)—'Fear is upon us, spy!'Go where his pickets hide—Unmask the shapes they take,Whether a gnat from the waterside,Or stinging fly in the brake,Or filth of the crowded street,Or a sick rat limping by,Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat—That is the work of a spy!(Drums)—Death is upon us, spy!'What does he next prepare?Whence will he move to attack?—By water, earth or air?—How can we head him back?Shall we starve him out if we burnOr bury his food-supply?Slip through his lines and learn—That is work for a spy!(Drums)—Get to your business, spy!'Does he feint or strike in force?Will he charge or ambuscade?What is it checks his course?Is he beaten or only delayed?How long will the lull endure?Is he retreating? Why?Crawl to his camp and make sure—That is the work for a spy!(Drums)—Fetch us our answer, spy!'Ride with him girth to girthWherever the Pale Horse wheels,Wait on his councils, ear to earth,And say what the dust reveals.For the smoke of our torment rollsWhere the burning thousands lie;What do we care for men's bodies or souls?Bring us deliverance, spy!'THE SONS OF MARTHA

Through learned and laborious yearsThey set themselves to findFresh terrors and undreamed-of fearsTo heap upon mankind.

All that they drew from Heaven aboveOr digged from earth beneath,They laid into their treasure-troveAnd arsenals of death:

While, for well-weighed advantage sake,Ruler and ruled alikeBuilt up the faith they meant to breakWhen the fit hour should strike.

They traded with the careless earth,And good return it gave;They plotted by their neighbour's hearthThe means to make him slave.

When all was ready to their handThey loosed their hidden sword,And utterly laid waste a landTheir oath was pledged to guard.

Coldly they went about to raiseTo life and make more dreadAbominations of old days,That men believed were dead.

They paid the price to reach their goalAcross a world in flame;But their own hate slew their own soulBefore that victory came.

The Doorkeepers of Zion,They do not always standIn helmet and whole armour,With halberds in their hand,But, being sure of Zion,And all her mysteries,They rest awhile in Zion,Sit down and smile in Zion;Ay, even jest in Zion;In Zion, at their ease.The Gatekeepers of Baal,They dare not sit or lean,But fume and fret and postureAnd foam and curse between;For being bound to Baal,Whose sacrifice is vain.Their rest is scant with Baal,They glare and pant for Baal,They mouth and rant for Baal,For Baal in their pain!But we will go to Zion,By choice and not through dread,With these our present comradesAnd those our present dead;And, being free of ZionIn both her fellowships,Sit down and sup in Zion—Stand up and drink in ZionWhatever cup in ZionIs offered to our lips!

The Gatekeepers of Baal,They dare not sit or lean,But fume and fret and postureAnd foam and curse between;For being bound to Baal,Whose sacrifice is vain.Their rest is scant with Baal,They glare and pant for Baal,They mouth and rant for Baal,For Baal in their pain!

But we will go to Zion,By choice and not through dread,With these our present comradesAnd those our present dead;And, being free of ZionIn both her fellowships,Sit down and sup in Zion—Stand up and drink in ZionWhatever cup in ZionIs offered to our lips!

1914

He passed in the very battle-smokeOf the war that he had descried.Three hundred mile of cannon spokeWhen the Master-Gunner died.He passed to the very sound of the guns;But, before his eye grew dim,He had seen the faces of the sonsWhose sires had served with him.He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted eachWith the old sure word of praise;And there was virtue in touch and speechAs it had been in old days.So he dismissed them and took his rest,And the steadfast spirit went forthBetween the adoring East and WestAnd the tireless guns of the North.Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,Flawless in faith and fame,Whom neither ease nor honours movedAn hair's-breadth from his aim.Never again the war-wise face,The weighed and urgent wordThat pleaded in the market-place—Pleaded and was not heard!Yet from his life a new life springsThrough all the hosts to come,And Glory is the least of thingsThat follow this man home.

He passed in the very battle-smokeOf the war that he had descried.Three hundred mile of cannon spokeWhen the Master-Gunner died.

He passed to the very sound of the guns;But, before his eye grew dim,He had seen the faces of the sonsWhose sires had served with him.

He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted eachWith the old sure word of praise;And there was virtue in touch and speechAs it had been in old days.

So he dismissed them and took his rest,And the steadfast spirit went forthBetween the adoring East and WestAnd the tireless guns of the North.

Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved,Flawless in faith and fame,Whom neither ease nor honours movedAn hair's-breadth from his aim.

Never again the war-wise face,The weighed and urgent wordThat pleaded in the market-place—Pleaded and was not heard!

Yet from his life a new life springsThrough all the hosts to come,And Glory is the least of thingsThat follow this man home.

1916

Brethren, how shall it fare with meWhen the war is laid aside,If it be proven that I am heFor whom a world has died?If it be proven that all my good,And the greater good I will make,Were purchased me by a multitudeWho suffered for my sake?That I was delivered by mere mankindVowed to one sacrifice,And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,But dying with open eyes?That they did not ask me to draw the swordWhen they stood to endure their lot—That they only looked to me for a word,And I answered I knew them not?If it be found, when the battle clears,Their death has set me free,Then how shall I live with myself through the yearsWhich they have bought for me?Brethren, how must it fare with me,Or how am I justified,If it be proven that I am heFor whom mankind has died,If it be proven that I am heWho being questioned denied?

Brethren, how shall it fare with meWhen the war is laid aside,If it be proven that I am heFor whom a world has died?

If it be proven that all my good,And the greater good I will make,Were purchased me by a multitudeWho suffered for my sake?

That I was delivered by mere mankindVowed to one sacrifice,And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,But dying with open eyes?

That they did not ask me to draw the swordWhen they stood to endure their lot—That they only looked to me for a word,And I answered I knew them not?

If it be found, when the battle clears,Their death has set me free,Then how shall I live with myself through the yearsWhich they have bought for me?

Brethren, how must it fare with me,Or how am I justified,If it be proven that I am heFor whom mankind has died,If it be proven that I am heWho being questioned denied?

1917

(THE AMERICAN SPIRIT SPEAKS)

To the Judge of Right and WrongWith Whom fulfilment liesOur purpose and our power belong,Our faith and sacrifice.Let Freedom's Land rejoice!Our ancient bonds are riven;Once more to us the eternal choiceOf Good or Ill is given.Not at a little cost,Hardly by prayer or tears,Shall we recover the road we lostIn the drugged and doubting years.But, after the fires and the wrath,But, after searching and pain,His Mercy opens us a pathTo live with ourselves again.In the Gates of Death rejoice!We see and hold the good—Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choiceWith Freedom's brotherhood!Then praise the Lord Most HighWhose Strength hath saved us whole,Who bade us choose that the Flesh should dieAnd not the living Soul!To the God in Man displayed—Where e'er we see that Birth,Be love and understanding paidAs never yet on earth!To the Spirit that moves in Man,On Whom all worlds depend,Be Glory since our world beganAnd service to the end!

To the Judge of Right and WrongWith Whom fulfilment liesOur purpose and our power belong,Our faith and sacrifice.

Let Freedom's Land rejoice!Our ancient bonds are riven;Once more to us the eternal choiceOf Good or Ill is given.

Not at a little cost,Hardly by prayer or tears,Shall we recover the road we lostIn the drugged and doubting years.

But, after the fires and the wrath,But, after searching and pain,His Mercy opens us a pathTo live with ourselves again.

In the Gates of Death rejoice!We see and hold the good—Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choiceWith Freedom's brotherhood!

Then praise the Lord Most HighWhose Strength hath saved us whole,Who bade us choose that the Flesh should dieAnd not the living Soul!

To the God in Man displayed—Where e'er we see that Birth,Be love and understanding paidAs never yet on earth!

To the Spirit that moves in Man,On Whom all worlds depend,Be Glory since our world beganAnd service to the end!

1917

('For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto'—Bunyan'sHoly War)

A tinker out of Bedford,A vagrant oft in quod,A private under Fairfax,A minister of God—Two hundred years and thirtyEre Armageddon cameHis single hand portrayed it,And Bunyan was his name!He mapped, for those who follow,The world in which we are—'This famous town of Mansoul'That takes the Holy WarHer true and traitor people,The gates along her wall,From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,John Bunyan showed them all.All enemy divisions,Recruits of every class,And highly-screened positionsFor flame or poison-gas,The craft that we call modern,The crimes that we call new,John Bunyan had 'em typed and filedIn Sixteen Eighty-twoLikewise the Lords of LoosenessThat hamper faith and works,The Perseverance-Doubters,And Present-Comfort shirks,With brittle intellectualsWho crack beneath a strain—John Bunyan met that helpful setIn Charles the Second's reign.Emmanuel's vanguard dyingFor right and not for rights,My Lord Apollyon lyingTo the State-kept Stockholmites,The Pope, the swithering Neutrals,The Kaiser and his Gott—Their rôles, their goals, their naked souls—He knew and drew the lot.Now he hath left his quarters,In Bunhill Fields to lie.The wisdom that he taught usIs proven prophecy—One watchword through our armies,One answer from our lands—'No dealings with DiabolusAs long as Mansoul stands.A pedlar from a hovel,The lowest of the low,The father of the Novel,Salvation's first Defoe,Eight blinded generationsEre Armageddon came,He showed us how to meet it,And Bunyan was his name!

A tinker out of Bedford,A vagrant oft in quod,A private under Fairfax,A minister of God—Two hundred years and thirtyEre Armageddon cameHis single hand portrayed it,And Bunyan was his name!

He mapped, for those who follow,The world in which we are—'This famous town of Mansoul'That takes the Holy WarHer true and traitor people,The gates along her wall,From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,John Bunyan showed them all.

All enemy divisions,Recruits of every class,And highly-screened positionsFor flame or poison-gas,The craft that we call modern,The crimes that we call new,John Bunyan had 'em typed and filedIn Sixteen Eighty-two

Likewise the Lords of LoosenessThat hamper faith and works,The Perseverance-Doubters,And Present-Comfort shirks,With brittle intellectualsWho crack beneath a strain—John Bunyan met that helpful setIn Charles the Second's reign.

Emmanuel's vanguard dyingFor right and not for rights,My Lord Apollyon lyingTo the State-kept Stockholmites,The Pope, the swithering Neutrals,The Kaiser and his Gott—Their rôles, their goals, their naked souls—He knew and drew the lot.

Now he hath left his quarters,In Bunhill Fields to lie.The wisdom that he taught usIs proven prophecy—One watchword through our armies,One answer from our lands—'No dealings with DiabolusAs long as Mansoul stands.

A pedlar from a hovel,The lowest of the low,The father of the Novel,Salvation's first Defoe,Eight blinded generationsEre Armageddon came,He showed us how to meet it,And Bunyan was his name!

(A SONG OF THE DOMINIONS)

1898

'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.For my house and thy house no help shall we findSave thy house and my house—kin cleaving to kind:If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon,If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there beOf headship or lordship, or service or fee?Since my house to thy house no greater can sendThan thy house to my house—friend comforting friend;And thy house to my house no meaner can bringThan my house to thy house—King counselling King.

For my house and thy house no help shall we findSave thy house and my house—kin cleaving to kind:If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon,If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there beOf headship or lordship, or service or fee?Since my house to thy house no greater can sendThan thy house to my house—friend comforting friend;And thy house to my house no meaner can bringThan my house to thy house—King counselling King.

God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,But—leave your sports a little while—the dead are borne this way!Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there?Singing:—Break ground for a wearied hostThat have no ground to keep.Give them the rest that they covet most,And who shall next to sleep, good sirs,In such a trench to sleep?God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pass.We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this PrideThree hundred years it flourished—in three hundred days it died.Singing:—Pour oil for a frozen throng,That lie about the ways.Give them the warmth they have lacked so longAnd what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,On such a pyre to blaze?God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.Singing:—Break bread for a starving folkThat perish in the field.Give them their food as they take the yoke …And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,For such a bribe to yield?God rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?'Twixt the summer and the snow—seeding-time and frost—Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!Singing:—Let down by the foot and the head—Shovel and smooth it all!So do we bury a Nation dead …And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,With your good help to fall?

God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pass.We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this PrideThree hundred years it flourished—in three hundred days it died.Singing:—Pour oil for a frozen throng,That lie about the ways.Give them the warmth they have lacked so longAnd what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,On such a pyre to blaze?

God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.Singing:—Break bread for a starving folkThat perish in the field.Give them their food as they take the yoke …And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,For such a bribe to yield?

God rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?'Twixt the summer and the snow—seeding-time and frost—Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!Singing:—Let down by the foot and the head—Shovel and smooth it all!So do we bury a Nation dead …And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,With your good help to fall?

1918

We're not so old in the Army List,But we're not so young at our trade,For we had the honour at FontenoyOf meeting the Guards' Brigade.'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,And Lee that led us then,And after a hundred and seventy yearsWe're fighting for France again!Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!Ireland no more!The fashion's all for khaki now,But once through France we wentFull-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,The English—left at GhentThey're fighting on our side to-day.But, before they changed their clothes,The half of Europe knew our fame,As all of Ireland knows!Old Days! The wild geese are flying,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's memory undying,And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,The ancient days come back no moreThan water under the bridgeBut the bridge it stands and the water runsAs red as yesterday,And the Irish move to the sound of the gunsLike salmon to the sea.Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!We're not so old in the Army List,But we're not so new in the ring,For we carried our packs with Marshal SaxeWhen Louis was our King.But Douglas Haig's our Marshal nowAnd we're King George's men,And after one hundred and seventy yearsWe're fighting for France again!Ah, France! And did we stand by you,When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?Ah, France! And will we deny youIn the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,But once through France we wentFull-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,The English—left at GhentThey're fighting on our side to-day.But, before they changed their clothes,The half of Europe knew our fame,As all of Ireland knows!Old Days! The wild geese are flying,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's memory undying,And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,The ancient days come back no moreThan water under the bridgeBut the bridge it stands and the water runsAs red as yesterday,And the Irish move to the sound of the gunsLike salmon to the sea.Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,But we're not so new in the ring,For we carried our packs with Marshal SaxeWhen Louis was our King.But Douglas Haig's our Marshal nowAnd we're King George's men,And after one hundred and seventy yearsWe're fighting for France again!Ah, France! And did we stand by you,When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?Ah, France! And will we deny youIn the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,Head to the storm as they faced it before!For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!Ireland no more!

1916

The Babe was laid in the MangerBetween the gentle kine—All safe from cold and danger—'But it was not so with mine.(With mine! With mine!)'Is it well with the child, is it well?'The waiting mother prayed.'For I know not how he fell,And I know not where he is laid.'A Star stood forth in Heaven,The watchers ran to seeThe Sign of the Promise given—'But there comes no sign to me.(To me! To me!)'Mychild died in the dark.Is it well with the child, is it well?There was none to tend him or mark,And I know not how he fell.'The Cross was raised on high;The Mother grieved beside—'But the Mother saw Him dieAnd took Him when He died.(He died! He died!)'Seemly and undefiledHis burial-place was made—Is it well, is it well with the child?For I know not where he is laid.'On the dawning of Easter DayComes Mary Magdalene;But the Stone was rolled away,And the Body was not within—(Within! Within!)'Ah, who will answer my word?'The broken mother prayed.'They have taken away my Lord,And I know not where He is laid.'The Star stands forth in Heaven.The watchers watch in vainFor a Sign of the Promise givenOf peace on Earth again—(Again! Again!)'But I know for Whom he fell'—The steadfast mother smiled'Is it well with the child—is it well?It is well—it is well with the child!'

A Star stood forth in Heaven,The watchers ran to seeThe Sign of the Promise given—'But there comes no sign to me.(To me! To me!)'Mychild died in the dark.Is it well with the child, is it well?There was none to tend him or mark,And I know not how he fell.'

The Cross was raised on high;The Mother grieved beside—'But the Mother saw Him dieAnd took Him when He died.(He died! He died!)'Seemly and undefiledHis burial-place was made—Is it well, is it well with the child?For I know not where he is laid.'

On the dawning of Easter DayComes Mary Magdalene;But the Stone was rolled away,And the Body was not within—(Within! Within!)'Ah, who will answer my word?'The broken mother prayed.'They have taken away my Lord,And I know not where He is laid.'

The Star stands forth in Heaven.The watchers watch in vainFor a Sign of the Promise givenOf peace on Earth again—(Again! Again!)'But I know for Whom he fell'—The steadfast mother smiled'Is it well with the child—is it well?It is well—it is well with the child!'

'Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor'1SamuelXXVIII7

The road to En-dor is easy to treadFor Mother or yearning Wife.There, it is sure, we shall meet our DeadAs they were even in life.Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in storeFor desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark—Hands—ah God!—that we knew!Visions and voices—look and heark!—Shall prove that our tale is true,And that those who have passed to the further shoreMay be hailed—at a price—on the road to En-dor.But they are so deep in their new eclipseNothing they say can reach,Unless it be uttered by alien lipsAnd framed in a stranger's speech.The son must send word to the mother that bore,Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.And not for nothing these gifts are shownBy such as delight our dead.They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groanEre the eyes are set in the head,And the voice from the belly begins. ThereforeWe pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.Even so, we have need of faithAnd patience to follow the clue.Often, at first, what the dear one saithIs babble, or jest, or untrue.(Lying spirits perplex us soreTill our loves—and our lives—are well known at En-dor)…Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest roadAnd the craziest road of all!Straight it runs to the Witch's abode,As it did in the days of Saul,And nothing has changed of the sorrow in storeFor such as go down on the road to En-dor!

Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark—Hands—ah God!—that we knew!Visions and voices—look and heark!—Shall prove that our tale is true,And that those who have passed to the further shoreMay be hailed—at a price—on the road to En-dor.

But they are so deep in their new eclipseNothing they say can reach,Unless it be uttered by alien lipsAnd framed in a stranger's speech.The son must send word to the mother that bore,Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.

And not for nothing these gifts are shownBy such as delight our dead.They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groanEre the eyes are set in the head,And the voice from the belly begins. ThereforeWe pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.

Even so, we have need of faithAnd patience to follow the clue.Often, at first, what the dear one saithIs babble, or jest, or untrue.(Lying spirits perplex us soreTill our loves—and our lives—are well known at En-dor)…

Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest roadAnd the craziest road of all!Straight it runs to the Witch's abode,As it did in the days of Saul,And nothing has changed of the sorrow in storeFor such as go down on the road to En-dor!

(TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)

What boots it on the Gods to call?Since, answered or unheard,We perish with the Gods and allThings made—except the Word.Ere certain Fate had touched a heartBy fifty years made cold,I judged thee, Lyde, and thy artO'erblown and over-bold.But he—but he, of whom bereftI suffer vacant days—He on his shield not meanly left—He cherished all thy lays.Witness the magic coffer stockedWith convoluted runesWherein thy very voice was lockedAnd linked to circling tunes.Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,That decked his shelter-place.Life seemed more present, wrote the child,Beneath thy well-known face.And when the grudging days restoredHim for a breath to home,He, with fresh crowds of youth, adoredThee making mirth in Rome.Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts,Loyal and loud, who bowTo thee as Queen of Songs—and ghosts—For I remember howNever more rampant rose the HallAt thy audacious lineThan when the news came in from GaulThy son had—followed mine.But thou didst hide it in thy breastAnd, capering, took the bruntOf blaze and blare, and launched the jestThat swept next week the front.Singer to children! Ours possessedSleep before noon—but thee,Wakeful each midnight for the rest,No holocaust shall free.Yet they who use the Word assigned,To hearten and make whole,Not less than Gods have served mankind,Though vultures rend their soul.

What boots it on the Gods to call?Since, answered or unheard,We perish with the Gods and allThings made—except the Word.

Ere certain Fate had touched a heartBy fifty years made cold,I judged thee, Lyde, and thy artO'erblown and over-bold.

But he—but he, of whom bereftI suffer vacant days—He on his shield not meanly left—He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stockedWith convoluted runesWherein thy very voice was lockedAnd linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,That decked his shelter-place.Life seemed more present, wrote the child,Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restoredHim for a breath to home,He, with fresh crowds of youth, adoredThee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts,Loyal and loud, who bowTo thee as Queen of Songs—and ghosts—For I remember howNever more rampant rose the HallAt thy audacious lineThan when the news came in from GaulThy son had—followed mine.

But thou didst hide it in thy breastAnd, capering, took the bruntOf blaze and blare, and launched the jestThat swept next week the front.

Singer to children! Ours possessedSleep before noon—but thee,Wakeful each midnight for the rest,No holocaust shall free.

Yet they who use the Word assigned,To hearten and make whole,Not less than Gods have served mankind,Though vultures rend their soul.

'Have you news of my boy Jack?'Not this tide.'When d'you think that he'll come back?'Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Has any one else had word of him?'Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind—Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

'Have you news of my boy Jack?'Not this tide.'When d'you think that he'll come back?'Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Has any one else had word of him?'Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind—Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

(JUTLAND)

Not in the thick of the fight,Not in the press of the odds,Do the heroes come to their height,Or we know the demi-gods.That stands over till peace.We can only perceiveMen returned from the seas,Very grateful for leave.They grant us sudden daysSnatched from their business of war;But we are too close to appraiseWhat manner of men they are.And, whether their names go downWith age-kept victories,Or whether they battle and drownUnreckoned, is hid from our eyes.They are too near to be great,But our children shall understandWhen and how our fateWas changed, and by whose hand.Our children shall measure their worth.We are content to be blindBut we know that we walk on a new-born earthWith the saviours of mankind.

Not in the thick of the fight,Not in the press of the odds,Do the heroes come to their height,Or we know the demi-gods.

That stands over till peace.We can only perceiveMen returned from the seas,Very grateful for leave.

They grant us sudden daysSnatched from their business of war;But we are too close to appraiseWhat manner of men they are.

And, whether their names go downWith age-kept victories,Or whether they battle and drownUnreckoned, is hid from our eyes.

They are too near to be great,But our children shall understandWhen and how our fateWas changed, and by whose hand.

Our children shall measure their worth.We are content to be blindBut we know that we walk on a new-born earthWith the saviours of mankind.

1917

They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slainIn sight of help denied from day to day:But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,Are they too strong and wise to put away?Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide—Never while the bars of sunset hold:But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?When the storm is ended shall we findHow softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to powerBy the favour and contrivance of their kind?Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,Even while they make a show of fear,Do they call upon their debtors, and take council with their friends,To confirm and re-establish each career?Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo—The shame that they have laid upon our race:But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slainIn sight of help denied from day to day:But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide—Never while the bars of sunset hold:But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?When the storm is ended shall we findHow softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to powerBy the favour and contrivance of their kind?

Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,Even while they make a show of fear,Do they call upon their debtors, and take council with their friends,To confirm and re-establish each career?

Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo—The shame that they have laid upon our race:But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

After the burial-parties leaveAnd the baffled kites have fled,The wise hyænas come out at eveTo take account of our dead.How he died and why he diedTroubles them not a whit.They snout the bushes and stones asideAnd dig till they come to it.They are only resolute they shall eatThat they and their mates may thrive,And they know that the dead are safer meatThan the weakest thing alive.(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,And a child will sometimes stand;But a poor dead soldier of the KingCan never lift a hand.)They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirtUntil their tushes whiteTake good hold in the army shirt,And tug the corpse to light,And the pitiful face is shewn againFor an instant ere they close;But it is not discovered to living men—Only to God and to thoseWho, being soulless, are free from shame,Whatever meat they may find.Nor do they defile the dead man's name—That is reserved for his kind.

After the burial-parties leaveAnd the baffled kites have fled,The wise hyænas come out at eveTo take account of our dead.

How he died and why he diedTroubles them not a whit.They snout the bushes and stones asideAnd dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eatThat they and their mates may thrive,And they know that the dead are safer meatThan the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,And a child will sometimes stand;But a poor dead soldier of the KingCan never lift a hand.)

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirtUntil their tushes whiteTake good hold in the army shirt,And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn againFor an instant ere they close;But it is not discovered to living men—Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,Whatever meat they may find.Nor do they defile the dead man's name—That is reserved for his kind.

(BEFORE THE WAR)

('The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon… Dr M—— died last week, and C—— on Monday, but some more medicines are coming… We don't seem to be able to check it at all… Villages panicking badly… In some places not a living soul… But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents… Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.'Extracted from a private letter from Manchuria.)

There are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugles we rally,From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!Not where the squadrons mass,Not where the bayonets shine,Not where the big shell shout as they passOver the firing-line;Not where the wounded are,Not where the nations die,Killed in the cleanly game of war—That is no place for a spy!O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours—Here is no place for a spy!Trained to another use,We march with colours furled,Only concerned when Death breaks looseOn a front of half a world.Only for General DeathThe Yellow Flag may fly,While we take post beneath—That is the place for a spy.Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions—Then will be work for a spy!The dropping shots begin,The single funerals pass,Our skirmishers run in,The corpses dot the grass!The howling towns stampede,The tainted hamlets die.Now it is war indeed—Now there is room for a spy!O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands—What is the work for a spy?(Drums)—'Fear is upon us, spy!'Go where his pickets hide—Unmask the shapes they take,Whether a gnat from the waterside,Or stinging fly in the brake,Or filth of the crowded street,Or a sick rat limping by,Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat—That is the work of a spy!(Drums)—Death is upon us, spy!'What does he next prepare?Whence will he move to attack?—By water, earth or air?—How can we head him back?Shall we starve him out if we burnOr bury his food-supply?Slip through his lines and learn—That is work for a spy!(Drums)—Get to your business, spy!'Does he feint or strike in force?Will he charge or ambuscade?What is it checks his course?Is he beaten or only delayed?How long will the lull endure?Is he retreating? Why?Crawl to his camp and make sure—That is the work for a spy!(Drums)—Fetch us our answer, spy!'Ride with him girth to girthWherever the Pale Horse wheels,Wait on his councils, ear to earth,And say what the dust reveals.For the smoke of our torment rollsWhere the burning thousands lie;What do we care for men's bodies or souls?Bring us deliverance, spy!'

Not where the squadrons mass,Not where the bayonets shine,Not where the big shell shout as they passOver the firing-line;Not where the wounded are,Not where the nations die,Killed in the cleanly game of war—That is no place for a spy!O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours—Here is no place for a spy!

Trained to another use,We march with colours furled,Only concerned when Death breaks looseOn a front of half a world.Only for General DeathThe Yellow Flag may fly,While we take post beneath—That is the place for a spy.Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions—Then will be work for a spy!

The dropping shots begin,The single funerals pass,Our skirmishers run in,The corpses dot the grass!The howling towns stampede,The tainted hamlets die.Now it is war indeed—Now there is room for a spy!O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands—What is the work for a spy?(Drums)—'Fear is upon us, spy!

'Go where his pickets hide—Unmask the shapes they take,Whether a gnat from the waterside,Or stinging fly in the brake,Or filth of the crowded street,Or a sick rat limping by,Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat—That is the work of a spy!(Drums)—Death is upon us, spy!

'What does he next prepare?Whence will he move to attack?—By water, earth or air?—How can we head him back?Shall we starve him out if we burnOr bury his food-supply?Slip through his lines and learn—That is work for a spy!(Drums)—Get to your business, spy!

'Does he feint or strike in force?Will he charge or ambuscade?What is it checks his course?Is he beaten or only delayed?How long will the lull endure?Is he retreating? Why?Crawl to his camp and make sure—That is the work for a spy!(Drums)—Fetch us our answer, spy!

'Ride with him girth to girthWherever the Pale Horse wheels,Wait on his councils, ear to earth,And say what the dust reveals.For the smoke of our torment rollsWhere the burning thousands lie;What do we care for men's bodies or souls?Bring us deliverance, spy!'

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