War Drums (Scharkie)/War—Song of the Saxons
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WAR-SONG OF THE SAXONS.
Hurrah for the roar of guns at war,
And the clang of bolt and steel;
Hurrah for the shout, and the rush, and the rout,
Where the horse and the rider reel.
Hurrah for the ball that can crush and gall,
And the blade that can cut, and kill;
For the shrieking shell, like a flaring hell
In the gaps of a flaming hill.
And the clang of bolt and steel;
Hurrah for the shout, and the rush, and the rout,
Where the horse and the rider reel.
Hurrah for the ball that can crush and gall,
And the blade that can cut, and kill;
For the shrieking shell, like a flaring hell
In the gaps of a flaming hill.
Is it right? Is it wrong? Can our babes lisp the song
Of an ill that might vanish and cease?
Is it wrong? Is it right? and fight,
Or rot in a deadly peace? Will we grapple
A peace that a thrall might cower to call
A blind world's boon, or a blind world's flaw,
When a word from a throne might topple the zone
In a bloody red maelstrom of war.
Of an ill that might vanish and cease?
Is it wrong? Is it right? and fight,
Or rot in a deadly peace? Will we grapple
A peace that a thrall might cower to call
A blind world's boon, or a blind world's flaw,
When a word from a throne might topple the zone
In a bloody red maelstrom of war.
Is it peace when the pen lights the passions of men
With deeds of aggression and wrong?
When the cry for the right leads to clangour and fight,
And grist for the crafty and strong.
When justice is sold for prestige and gold;
And loyalty, blind as the Calf,
Is the rabbles' wild cry, e'er they marshal to die,
While Senates sit scheming, and laugh.
With deeds of aggression and wrong?
When the cry for the right leads to clangour and fight,
And grist for the crafty and strong.
When justice is sold for prestige and gold;
And loyalty, blind as the Calf,
Is the rabbles' wild cry, e'er they marshal to die,
While Senates sit scheming, and laugh.
Give us death, give us war, give us thunder and roar
Of loud-ringing shocks of the plain,
Where bullet and bolt batter village and holt,
And blood runs as streams of the rain.
Is it peace? Give us death that will stifle the breath,
And silence the world evermore;
Better, far, mangled bones, ruined walls, toppled thrones,
Than a peace that is heavier than war.
Of loud-ringing shocks of the plain,
Where bullet and bolt batter village and holt,
And blood runs as streams of the rain.
Is it peace? Give us death that will stifle the breath,
And silence the world evermore;
Better, far, mangled bones, ruined walls, toppled thrones,
Than a peace that is heavier than war.
Nay! cry not a shame on a hope and a name
That would strike for a shadowless peace,
Where strife is wide-hurled, and its battle-flags furled,
And flung in the depths of the seas.
Will it come when the claw of Senate and law
Is claspt on the will of the free?
When Emperors plan, nor reckon of man,
In hopes of a fruitful sea?
That would strike for a shadowless peace,
Where strife is wide-hurled, and its battle-flags furled,
And flung in the depths of the seas.
Will it come when the claw of Senate and law
Is claspt on the will of the free?
When Emperors plan, nor reckon of man,
In hopes of a fruitful sea?
Will it come? Yea, come with the boom of the drum,
And the cannon-blast bellowing doom,
When men will withdraw from the horror of war,
As terror would fly from a tomb.
In carnage, and shout, in the charge, and the rout,
The world's saddest tale will be told,
When the cannons' last boom will have uttered their doom,
Where the corpses lie mangled and cold.
And the cannon-blast bellowing doom,
When men will withdraw from the horror of war,
As terror would fly from a tomb.
In carnage, and shout, in the charge, and the rout,
The world's saddest tale will be told,
When the cannons' last boom will have uttered their doom,
Where the corpses lie mangled and cold.
Then evermore fight; yea evermore fight,
Till battle and clangour are done;
Till a warrior's robe will be cursed round the globe
And a warrior cursed 'neath the sun.
Give us death, give us war, give us thunder and roar,
And world-rocking battles and boom,
Till the truth will be caught, where we grappled and fought,
In a Phœnix of ghastliest doom.
Till battle and clangour are done;
Till a warrior's robe will be cursed round the globe
And a warrior cursed 'neath the sun.
Give us death, give us war, give us thunder and roar,
And world-rocking battles and boom,
Till the truth will be caught, where we grappled and fought,
In a Phœnix of ghastliest doom.