Part 10 (1/2)

OUR DEAD

Not where the English turf grows green we laid them, Where their forefathers lie; O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them Arches an alien sky.

No chime of bells from old-time towers above them; No sound of English streams, Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them, Ever shall break their dreams.

What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes Its flowers as softly sheds As English winds could bring the English roses To rain upon their heads.

And though an alien land their dust is keeping, Still in their hearts with pride They say: ”Though England may not guard our sleeping, Yet 'tis for her we died.”

And with each wind across the waves that sever Them from the land they knew, Shall blow this message through their hearts forever: ”England remembers too.”

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916

Gregory fell beside the Marne, And John where flows the Aisne; But here to-night, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.

Though land and sea lie wide between, Their ghosts this way shall win, For, three true men, we made a bond To watch the New Year in.

We made it on a Flanders field Where white the sh.e.l.l-smoke ran; And who is Death to break the faith That man has pledged to man?

Then draw their chairs beside the fire And brim their cups with wine; For ere the bells of midnight swing Their hands shall clasp with mine.

Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down, And John beside the Aisne, Living and dead, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.

TO IRELAND'S DEAD

Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore Your ports of quiet breath, Turning your prows from Life's familiar sh.o.r.e Forth with adventurous Death.

With that great comrade sailing, side by side, To meet your warrior peers, Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride Down all the echoing years.

Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's s.p.a.ce, Fade, waver and are gone; But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace A glory lingering on.

Farewell, great fellows.h.i.+p! Sail on, nor mourn Your ports of quiet breath; Your prows with singing and with laughter turn Forth with adventurous Death.

A SONG OF EXILE

What is the news of England?

The April breezes blow, Bringing to us faint odours From lanes we used to know-- Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges Foam into blossoms white; What is the news of England For England's sons to-night?

What is the news of England?

'Neath her white cliffs the sea Croons its soft song of summer, The golden days to be.