Poems (Craik)/By the Alma River
ILLIE, fold your little hands; Let it drop, that "soldier" toy: Look where father's picture stands,— Father, who here kissed his boy Not two months since,—father kind, Who this night may—Never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear, Call aloud that He may hear Who is God of battles, say, "O, keep father safe this day By the Alma river."
BY THE ALMA RIVER.
ILLIE, fold your little hands; Let it drop, that "soldier" toy: Look where father's picture stands,— Father, who here kissed his boy Not two months since,—father kind, Who this night may—Never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear, Call aloud that He may hear Who is God of battles, say, "O, keep father safe this day By the Alma river." Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk, Right of nations or of creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work: Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sebastopol; Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, where'er it be, Where he stands—no other word! Stands—God sure the child's prayer heard— By the Alma river.
Willie, listen to the bells Ringing through the town to-day. That 's for victory. Ah, no knells For the many swept away,— Hundreds—thousands! Let us weep, We who need not,—just to keep Reason steady in my brain Till the morning comes again, Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and fell By the Alma river.
Come, we 'll lay us down, my child, Poor the bed is, poor and hard; Yet thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home: Or beneath the starry dome Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries—Willie, mark— Where he buries those who died Fighting bravely at his side By the Alma river.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep, God will keep us, my boy; He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy, When I need not shrink to meet Those dread placards in the street, Which for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes—Child, say thy prayer Once again; a different one: Say, "O God, Thy will be done By the Alma river."