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A Shropshire Lad



A SHROPSHIRE LAD



By A. E. Housman

Introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite



1919





INTRODUCTION

A SHROPSHIRE LAD









INTRODUCTION

The method of the poems in A Shropshire Lad illustrates better than any theory how poetry may assume the attire of reality, and yet in speech of the simplest, become in spirit the sheer quality of loveliness. For, in these unobtrusive pages, there is nothing shunned which makes the spectacle of life parade its dark and painful, its ironic and cynical burdens, as well as those images with happy and exquisite aspects. With a broader and deeper background of experience and environment, which by some divine special privilege belongs to the poetic imagination, it is easier to set apart and contrast these opposing words and sympathies in a poet; but here we find them evoked in a restricted locale- an English county-where the rich, cool tranquil landscape gives a solid texture to the human show. What, I think, impresses one, thrills, like ecstatic, half-smothered strains of music, floating from unperceived instruments, in Mr. Housman's poems, is the encounter his spirit constantly endures with life. It is, this encounter, what you feel in the Greeks, and as in the Greeks, it is a spiritual waging of miraculous forces. There is, too, in Mr. Housman's poems, the singularly Grecian Quality of a clean and fragrant mental and emotional temper, vibrating equally whether the theme dealt with is ruin or defeat, or some great tragic crisis of spirit, or with moods and ardours of pure enjoyment and simplicities of feeling. Scarcely has any modern book of poems shown so sure a touch of genius in this respect: the magic, in a continuous glow saturating the substance of every picture and motive with its own peculiar essence.

What has been called the "cynical bitterness" of Mr. Housman's poems, is really nothing more than his ability to etch in sharp tones the actualities of experience. The poet himself is never cynical; his joyousness is all too apparent in the very manner and intensity of expression. The "lads" of Ludlow are so human to him, the hawthorn and broom on the Severn shores are so fragrant with associations, he cannot help but compose under a kind of imaginative wizardry of exultation, even when the immediate subject is grim or grotesque. In many of these brief, tense poems the reader confronts a mask, as it were, with appalling and distorted lineaments; but behind it the poet smiles, perhaps sardonically, but smiles nevertheless. In the real countenance there are no tears or grievances, but a quizzical, humorous expression which shows, when one has torn the subterfuge away, that here is a spirit whom life may menace with its contradictions and fatalities, but never dupe with its circumstance and mystery.

All this quite points to, and partly explains, the charm of the poems in A Shropshire Lad . The fastidious care with which each poem is built out of the simplest of technical elements, the precise tone and color of language employed to articulate impulse and mood, and the reproduction of objective substances for a clear visualization of character and scene, all tend by a sure and unfaltering composition, to present a lyric art unique in English poetry of the last twenty-five years.

I dare say I have scarcely touched upon the secret of Mr. Housman's book. For some it may radiate from the Shropshire life he so finely etches; for others, in the vivid artistic simplicity and unity of values, through which Shropshire lads and landscapes are presented. It must be, however, in the miraculous fusing of the two. Whatever that secret is, the charm of it never fails after all these years to keep the poems preserved with a freshness and vitality, which are the qualities of enduring genius.

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE



A SHROPSHIRE LAD

          I

          1887

          From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
           The shires have seen it plain,
          From north and south the sign returns
           And beacons burn again.

          Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
           The dales are light between,
          Because 'tis fifty years to-night
           That God has saved the Queen.

          Now, when the flame they watch not towers
           About the soil they trod,
          Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
           Who shared the work with God.

          To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
           To fields that bred them brave,
          The saviours come not home to-night:
           Themselves they could not save.

          It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
           And Shropshire names are read;
          And the Nile spills his overflow
           Beside the Severn's dead.

          We pledge in peace by farm and town
           The Queen they served in war,
          And fire the beacons up and down
           The land they perished for.

          "God Save the Queen" we living sing,
           From height to height 'tis heard;
          And with the rest your voices ring,
           Lads of the Fifty-third.

          Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
           Be you the men you've been,
          Get you the sons your fathers got,
           And God will Save the Queen.
          II

          Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
          Is hung with bloom along the bough,
          And stands about the woodland ride
          Wearing white for Eastertide.

          Now, of my threescore years and ten,
          Twenty will not come again,
          And take from seventy springs a score,
          It only leaves me fifty more.

          And since to look at things in bloom
          Fifty springs are little room,
          About the woodlands I will go
          To see the cherry hung with snow.
          III

          THE RECRUIT

          Leave your home behind, lad,
           And reach your friends your hand,
          And go, and luck go with you
           While Ludlow tower shall stand.

          Oh, come you home of Sunday
           When Ludlow streets are still
          And Ludlow bells are calling
           To farm and lane and mill,

          Or come you home of Monday
           When Ludlow market hums
          And Ludlow chimes are playing
           "The conquering hero comes,"

          Come you home a hero,
           Or come not home at all,
          The lads you leave will mind you
           Till Ludlow tower shall fall.

          And you will list the bugle
           That blows in lands of morn,
          And make the foes of England
           Be sorry you were born.

          And you till trump of doomsday
           On lands of morn may lie,
          And make the hearts of comrades
           Be heavy where you die.

          Leave your home behind you,
           Your friends by field and town
          Oh, town and field will mind you
           Till Ludlow tower is down.
          IV

          REVEILLE

          Wake: the silver dusk returning
           Up the beach of darkness brims,
          And the ship of sunrise burning
           Strands upon the eastern rims.

          Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
           Trampled to the floor it spanned,
          And the tent of night in tatters
           Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

          Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
           Hear the drums of morning play;
          Hark, the empty highways crying
           "Who'll beyond the hills away?"

          Towns and countries woo together,
           Forelands beacon, belfries call;
          Never lad that trod on leather
           Lived to feast his heart with all.

          Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
           Sunlit pallets never thrive;
          Morns abed and daylight slumber
           Were not meant for man alive.

          Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
           Breath's a ware that will not keep
          Up, lad: when the journey's over
           There'll be time enough to sleep.
          V

          Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
           Are lying in field and lane,
          With dandelions to tell the hours
           That never are told again.
          Oh may I squire you round the meads
           And pick you posies gay?
          -'Twill do no harm to take my arm.
           "You may, young man, you may."

          Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,
           'Tis now the blood runs gold,
          And man and maid had best be glad
           Before the world is old.
          What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,
           But never as good as new.
          -Suppose I wound my arm right round-
           " 'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."

          Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,
           That only court to thieve,
          And once they bear the bloom away
           'Tis little enough they leave.
          Then keep your heart for men like me
           And safe from trustless chaps.
          My love is true and all for you.
           "Perhaps, young man, perhaps."

          Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt?
           -Why, 'tis a mile from town.
          How green the grass is all about!
           We might as well sit down.
          -Ah, life, what is it but a flower?
           Why must true lovers sigh?
          Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,-
           "Good-bye, young man, good-bye."
          VI

          When the lad for longing sighs,
           Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
          If at death's own door he lies,
           Maiden, you can heal his ail.

          Lovers' ills are all to buy:
           The wan look, the hollow tone,
          The hung head, the sunken eye,
           You can have them for your own.

          Buy them, buy them: eve and morn
           Lovers' ills are all to sell.
          Then you can lie down forlorn;
           But the lover will be well.
          VII

          When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
           And mist blew off from Teme,
          And blithe afield to ploughing
           Against the morning beam
           I strode beside my team,

          The blackbird in the coppice
           Looked out to see me stride,
          And hearkened as I whistled
           The tramping team beside,
           And fluted and replied:

          "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
           What use to rise and rise?
          Rise man a thousand mornings
           Yet down at last he lies,
           And then the man is wise."

          I heard the tune he sang me,
           And spied his yellow bill;
          I picked a stone and aimed it
           And threw it with a will:
           Then the bird was still.

          Then my soul within me
           Took up the blackbird's strain,
          And still beside the horses
           Along the dewy lane
           It Sang the song again:

          "Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
           The sun moves always west;
          The road one treads to labour
           Will lead one home to rest,
           And that will be the best."
          VIII

          "Farewell to barn and stack and tree,
           Farewell to Severn shore.
          Terence, look your last at me,
           For I come home no more.

          "The sun burns on the half-mown hill,
           By now the blood is dried;
          And Maurice amongst the hay lies still
           And my knife is in his side."

          "My mother thinks us long away;
           'Tis time the field were mown.
          She had two sons at rising day,
           To-night she'll be alone."

          "And here's a bloody hand to shake,
           And oh, man, here's good-bye;
          We'll sweat no more on scythe and rake,
           My bloody hands and I."

          "I wish you strength to bring you pride,
           And a love to keep you clean,
          And I wish you luck, come Lammastide,
           At racing on the green."

          "Long for me the rick will wait,
           And long will wait the fold,
          And long will stand the empty plate,
           And dinner will be cold."
          IX

          On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
           The sheep beside me graze;
          And yon the gallows used to clank
           Fast by the four cross ways.

          A careless shepherd once would keep
           The flocks by moonlight there, (1)
          And high amongst the glimmering sheep
           The dead man stood on air.

          They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
           The whistles blow forlorn,
          And trains all night groan on the rail
           To men that die at morn.

          There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
           Or wakes, as may betide,
          A better lad, if things went right,
           Than most that sleep outside.

          And naked to the hangman's noose
           The morning clocks will ring
          A neck God made for other use
           Than strangling in a string.

          And sharp the link of life will snap,
           And dead on air will stand
          Heels that held up as straight a chap
           As treads upon the land.

          So here I'll watch the night and wait
           To see the morning shine,
          When he will hear the stroke of eight
           And not the stroke of nine;

          And wish my friend as sound a sleep
           As lads' I did not know,
          That shepherded the moonlit sheep
           A hundred years ago.

          (1) Hanging in chains was called keeping sheep by moonlight.
          X

          MARCH

          The sun at noon to higher air,
          Unharnessing the silver Pair
          That late before his chariot swam,
          Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.

          So braver notes the storm-cock sings
          To start the rusted wheel of things,
          And brutes in field and brutes in pen
          Leap that the world goes round again.

          The boys are up the woods with day
          To fetch the daffodils away,
          And home at noonday from the hills
          They bring no dearth of daffodils.

          Afield for palms the girls repair,
          And sure enough the palms are there,
          And each will find by hedge or pond
          Her waving silver-tufted wand.

          In farm and field through all the shire
          The eye beholds the heart's desire;
          Ah, let not only mine be vain,
          For lovers should be loved again.
          XI

          On your midnight pallet lying
           Listen, and undo the door:
          Lads that waste the light in sighing
           In the dark should sigh no more;
          Night should ease a lover's sorrow;
          Therefore, since I go to-morrow;
           Pity me before.

          In the land to which I travel,
           The far dwelling, let me say-
          Once, if here the couch is gravel,
           In a kinder bed I lay,
          And the breast the darnel smothers
          Rested once upon another's
           When it was not clay.
          XII

          When I watch the living meet,
           And the moving pageant file
          Warm and breathing through the street
           Where I lodge a little while,

          If the heats of hate and lust
           In the house of flesh are strong,
          Let me mind the house of dust
           Where my sojourn shall be long.

          In the nation that is not
           Nothing stands that stood before;
          There revenges are forgot,
           And the hater hates no more;

          Lovers lying two and two
           Ask not whom they sleep beside,
          And the bridegroom all night through
           Never turns him to the bride.
          XIII

          When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard a wise man say,
          "Give crowns and pounds and guineas
           But not your heart away;
          Give pearls away and rubies
           But keep your fancy free."
          But I was one-and-twenty,
           No use to talk to me.

          When I was one-and-twenty
           I heard him say again,
          "The heart out of the bosom
           Was never given in vain;
          'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
           And sold for endless rue."
          And I am two-and-twenty,
           And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
          XIV

          There pass the careless people
           That call their souls their own:
          Here by the road I loiter,
           How idle and alone.

          Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
           In seas I cannot sound,
          My heart and soul and senses,
           World without end, are drowned.

          His folly has not fellow
           Beneath the blue of day
          That gives to man or woman
           His heart and soul away.

          There flowers no balm to sain him
           From east of earth to west
          That's lost for everlasting
           The heart out of his breast.

          Here by the labouring highway
           With empty hands I stroll:
          Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
           Lie lost my heart and soul.
          XV

          Look not in my eyes, for fear
           They mirror true the sight I see,
          And there you find your face too clear
           And love it and be lost like me.
          One the long nights through must lie
           Spent in star-defeated sighs,
          But why should you as well as I
           Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

          A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
           One that many loved in vain,
          Looked into a forest well
           And never looked away again.
          There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
           With downward eye and gazes sad,
          Stands amid the glancing showers
           A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.
          XVI

          It nods and curtseys and recovers
           When the wind blows above,
          The nettle on the graves of lovers
           That hanged themselves for love.

          The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
           The man, he does not move,
          The lover of the grave, the lover
           That hanged himself for love.
          XVII

          Twice a week the winter thorough
           Here stood I to keep the goal:
          Football then was fighting sorrow
           For the young man's soul.

          Now in May time to the wicket
           Out I march with bat and pad:
          See the son of grief at cricket
           Trying to be glad.

          Try I will; no harm in trying:
           Wonder 'tis how little mirth
          Keeps the bones of man from lying
           On the bed of earth.
          XVIII

          Oh, when I was in love with you,
           Then I was clean and brave,
          And miles around the wonder grew
           How well did I behave.

          And now the fancy passes by,
           And nothing will remain,
          And miles around they'll say that I
           Am quite myself again.
          XIX

          TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG

          The time you won your town the race
          We chaired you through the market-place;
          Man and boy stood cheering by,
          And home we brought you shoulder-high.

          To-day, the road all runners come,
          Shoulder-high we bring you home,
          And set you at your threshold down,
          Townsman of a stiller town.

          Smart lad, to slip betimes away
          From fields where glory does not stay
          And early though the laurel grows
          It withers quicker than the rose.

          Eyes the shady night has shut
          Cannot see the record cut,
          And silence sounds no worse than cheers
          After earth has stopped the ears:

          Now you will not swell the rout
          Of lads that wore their honours out,
          Runners whom renown outran
          And the name died before the man.

          So set, before its echoes fade,
          The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
          And hold to the low lintel up
          The still-defended challenge-cup.

          And round that early-laurelled head
          Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
          And find unwithered on its curls
          The garland briefer than a girl's.
          XX

          Oh fair enough are sky and plain,
           But I know fairer far:
          Those are as beautiful again
           That in the water are;

          The pools and rivers wash so clean
           The trees and clouds and air,
          The like on earth was never seen,
           And oh that I were there.

          These are the thoughts I often think
           As I stand gazing down
          In act upon the cressy brink
           To strip and dive and drown;

          But in the golden-sanded brooks
           And azure meres I spy
          A silly lad that longs and looks
           And wishes he were I.
          XXI

          BREDON HILL (1)

          In summertime on Bredon
           The bells they sound so clear;
          Round both the shires they ring them
           In steeples far and near,
           A happy noise to hear.

          Here of a Sunday morning
           My love and I would lie
          And see the coloured counties,
           And hear the larks so high
           About us in the sky.

          The bells would ring to call her
           In valleys miles away:
          "Come all to church, good people;
           Good people, come and pray."
           But here my love would stay.

          And I would turn and answer
           Among the springing thyme,
          "Oh, peal upon our wedding,
           And we will hear the chime,
           And come to church in time."

          But when the snows at Christmas
           On Bredon top were strown,
          My love rose up so early
           And stole out unbeknown
           And went to church alone.

          They tolled the one bell only,
           Groom there was none to see,
          The mourners followed after,
           And so to church went she,
           And would not wait for me.

          The bells they sound on Bredon,
           And still the steeples hum.
          "Come all to church, good people,"-
           Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
           I hear you, I will come.
          (1) Pronounced Breedon.
          XXII

          The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
           And out we troop to see:
          A single redcoat turns his head,
           He turns and looks at me.

          My man, from sky to sky's so far,
           We never crossed before;
          Such leagues apart the world's ends are,
           We're like to meet no more;

          What thoughts at heart have you and I
           We cannot stop to tell;
          But dead or living, drunk or dry,
           Soldier, I wish you well.
          XXIII

          The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
           There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
          The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
           And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

          There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
           And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
          And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
           And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

          I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
           The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
          And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
           And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

          But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
           And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
          They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
           The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
          XXIV

          Say, lad, have you things to do?
           Quick then, while your day's at prime.
          Quick, and if 'tis work for two,
           Here am I, man: now's your time.

          Send me now, and I shall go;
           Call me, I shall hear you call;
          Use me ere they lay me low
           Where a man's no use at all;

          Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
           And the willing nerve be numb,
          And the lips lack breath to say,
           "No, my lad, I cannot come."
          XXV

          This time of year a twelvemonth past,
           When Fred and I would meet,
          We needs must jangle, till at last
           We fought and I was beat.

          So then the summer fields about,
           Till rainy days began,
          Rose Harland on her Sundays out
           Walked with the better man.

          The better man she walks with still,
           Though now 'tis not with Fred:
          A lad that lives and has his will
           Is worth a dozen dead.

          Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,
           And clay's the house he keeps;
          When Rose and I walk out together
           Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.
          XXVI

           Along the fields as we came by
          A year ago, my love and I,
          The aspen over stile and stone
          Was talking to itself alone.
          "Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
          A country lover and his lass;
          Two lovers looking to be wed;
          And time shall put them both to bed,
          But she shall lie with earth above,
          And he beside another love."

           And sure enough beneath the tree
          There walks another love with me,
          And overhead the aspen heaves
          Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
          And I spell nothing in their stir,
          But now perhaps they speak to her,
          And plain for her to understand
          They talk about a time at hand
          When I shall sleep with clover clad,
          And she beside another lad.
          XXVII

          "Is my team ploughing,
           That I was used to drive
          And hear the harness jingle
           When I was man alive?"

          Ay, the horses trample,
           The harness jingles now;
          No change though you lie under
           The land you used to plough.

          "Is football playing
           Along the river shore,
          With lads to chase the leather,
           Now I stand up no more?"

          Ay, the ball is flying,
           The lads play heart and soul;
          The goal stands up, the keeper
           Stands up to keep the goal.

          "Is my girl happy,
           That I thought hard to leave,
          And has she tired of weeping
           As she lies down at eve?"

          Ay, she lies down lightly,
           She lies not down to weep:
          Your girl is well contented.
           Be still, my lad, and sleep.

          "Is my friend hearty,
           Now I am thin and pine,
          And has he found to sleep in
           A better bed than mine?"

          Yes, lad, I lie easy,
           I lie as lads would choose;
          I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
           Never ask me whose.
          XXVIII

          THE WELSH MARCHES

          High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
          Islanded in Severn stream;
          The bridges from the steepled crest
          Cross the water east and west.

          The flag of morn in conqueror's state
          Enters at the English gate:
          The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
          Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

          Ages since the vanquished bled
          Round my mother's marriage-bed;
          There the ravens feasted far
          About the open house of war:

          When Severn down to Buildwas ran
          Coloured with the death of man,
          Couched upon her brother's grave
          The Saxon got me on the slave.

          The sound of fight is silent long
          That began the ancient wrong;
          Long the voice of tears is still
          That wept of old the endless ill.

          In my heart it has not died,
          The war that sleeps on Severn side;
          They cease not fighting, east and west,
          On the marches of my breast.

          Here the truceless armies yet
          Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
          They kill and kill and never die;
          And I think that each is I.

          None will part us, none undo
          The knot that makes one flesh of two,
          Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
          Strangling-When shall we be slain?

          When shall I be dead and rid
          Of the wrong my father did?
          How long, how long, till spade and hearse
          Put to sleep my mother's curse?
          XXIX

          THE LENT LILY

          'Tis spring; come out to ramble
           The hilly brakes around,
          For under thorn and bramble
           About the hollow ground
           The primroses are found.

          And there's the windflower chilly
           With all the winds at play,
          And there's the Lenten lily
           That has not long to stay
           And dies on Easter day.

          And since till girls go maying
           You find the primrose still,
          And find the windflower playing
           With every wind at will,
           But not the daffodil,

          Bring baskets now, and sally
           Upon the spring's array,
          And bear from hill and valley
           The daffodil away
           That dies on Easter day.
          XXX

          Others, I am not the first,
          Have willed more mischief than they durst:
          If in the breathless night I too
          Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.

          More than I, if truth were told,
          Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
          And through their reins in ice and fire
          Fear contended with desire.

          Agued once like me were they,
          But I like them shall win my way
          Lastly to the bed of mould
          Where there's neither heat nor cold.

          But from my grave across my brow
          Plays no wind of healing now,
          And fire and ice within me fight
          Beneath the suffocating night.
          XXXI

          On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
           His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
          The gale, it plies the saplings double,
           And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

          'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
           When Uricon the city stood:
          'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
           But then it threshed another wood.

          Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
           At yonder heaving hill would stare:
          The blood that warms an English yeoman,
           The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

          There, like the wind through woods in riot,
           Through him the gale of life blew high;
          The tree of man was never quiet:
           Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

          The gale, it plies the saplings double,
           It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
          To-day the Roman and his trouble
           Are ashes under Uricon.
          XXXII

          From far, from eve and morning
           And yon twelve-winded sky,
          The stuff of life to knit me
           Blew hither: here am I.

          Now- for a breath I tarry
           Nor yet disperse apart-
          Take my hand quick and tell me,
           What have you in your heart.

          Speak now, and I will answer;
           How shall I help you, say;
          Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
           I take my endless way.
          XXXIII

          If truth in hearts that perish
           Could move the powers on high,
          I think the love I bear you
           Should make you not to die.

          Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,
           If single thought could save,
          The world might end to-morrow,
           You should not see the grave.

          This long and sure-set liking,
           This boundless will to please,
          -Oh, you should live for ever
           If there were help in these.

          But now, since all is idle,
           To this lost heart be kind,
          Ere to a town you journey
           Where friends are ill to find.
          XXXIV

          THE NEW MISTRESS

          "Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?
          You may be good for something, but you are not good for me.
          Oh, go where you are wanted, for you are not wanted here."           And that was all the farewell when I parted from my dear.

          "I will go where I am wanted, to a lady born and bred
          Who will dress me free for nothing in a uniform of red;
          She will not be sick to see me if I only keep it clean:
          I will go where I am wanted for a soldier of the Queen."

          "I will go where I am wanted, for the sergeant does not mind;
          He may be sick to see me but he treats me very kind:
          He gives me beer and breakfast and a ribbon for my cap,
          And I never knew a sweetheart spend her money on a chap."

          "I will go where I am wanted, where there's room for one or two,
          And the men are none too many for the work there is to do;
          Where the standing line wears thinner and the dropping dead lie thick;
          And the enemies of England they shall see me and be sick."
          XXXV

          On the idle hill of summer,
           Sleepy with the flow of streams,
          Far I hear the steady drummer
           Drumming like a noise in dreams.

          Far and near and low and louder
           On the roads of earth go by,
          Dear to friends and food for powder,
           Soldiers marching, all to die.

          East and west on fields forgotten
           Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
          Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
           None that go return again.

          Far the calling bugles hollo,
           High the screaming fife replies,
          Gay the files of scarlet follow:
           Woman bore me, I will rise.