'Tis sad to read of these young lives
Poured out to please a tyrant's whim;
My manly soul within me strives
To burst its bonds and have at him.
But peace, my soul! we must be strong,
For conscience whispers, "War is wrong."
Poor lads! Poor lads! Their duty calls;
_Their_ duty calls--no more they know;
No fear of death their faith appals;
All the clear summons hear, and go.
'Tis right, of course, they should; but I--
I serve a duty still more high.
And yet not all. Some few, I fear,
In this their country's hour of need
Keep undemonstratively clear,
Or, if they're called, exemption plead.
For these--no conscience-clause have they--
Conscription is the thing, I say.
But worse than these, who simply shirk,
Are those employed to fashion arms,
Who tempt their fellows not to work,
And give us all such grave alarms--
Traitors! If their deserts they got
They would be either hanged or shot.
The wind blows shrewdly here to-night,
My heart bleeds, as I think, perchance,
How numbed with cold our heroes fight;
How chill those trenches, there in France.
The thought unmans me. Ere I weep,
I'll drink my gruel--and to sleep.
* * * * *