_Great work! State work!--willingly done and well,
For the men who are doing so much for us
Ay--more than words can tell!
Right work! White work! faithfully, skillfully done,
But the whole of the soul of it will not be known
Till the war is properly won._
They mend the men; they tend the men;
They help them carry on;
They drop a little veil upon
The woes they've undergone.
They feed the men; they speed the men;
They make their daily bread;
They mend them while they're living,
And they tend them when they're dead.
There's many a lonely man out there
They've saved from black despair;
There's many a lowly grave out there
Made gracious by their care.
They toil for them; they moil for them;
Help lame dogs over stiles,
And do their best to buck them up
With cheery words and smiles.
They're just a little bit of home,
Come out to lend a hand.
They're gleams of warm bright sunshine
In a dreary, weary land.
They are sweet as pinks and daisies,
Just the sight of them is good,
When you've lived for eighteen months or so
In a sink of Flanders mud.
_New work, true work, gallantly, patiently done,
For the men who are giving their all for us--
Your brother, your lover, your son.
High work! Thy work, if truly to Thee it's done!--
But we never shall know all the debt we owe
Till the war is really won._