I
Still the guns!
There’s a ragged music on the air,
A priest had climbed the ruined temple’s stair,
Ah, still the guns!
It’s Christmas morning. Had ye all forgot?
Peace for a little while, ye battle-scarred—
Or do ye fear to cool those minds grown hot?
Up the great lovely tower, wracked and marred,
An old priest toils—
Men of the scattered soils,
Men of the British mists,
Men of France!
Put by the lance.
Men of Irish fists,
Men of heather,
Kneel together—
Men of Prussia,
Great dark men of Russia,
Kneel, kneel!
Hark how the slow bells peal.
A thousand leagues the faltered music runs,
Ah, still the wasting thunder of the guns,
Still the guns!