 | Words by the Wayside |  |
90
Privates of the Line
O rank and file of England,
Bold Privates of her line,
Whose battle-deeds unnumbered
In deathless glory shine,
Too cold the lips that praise you,
Too few the eyes that weep,
Too oft with dull oblivion
In nameless graves ye sleep:
Untaught and roughly nurtured,
If faint in you the flame
Of loftier aspiration
That fires the soul to fame—
If life's best lore ye know not,
Yet this at least ye know,
To fight, to die for England,
When England bids you go.
Bold Privates of her line,
Whose battle-deeds unnumbered
In deathless glory shine,
Too cold the lips that praise you,
Too few the eyes that weep,
Too oft with dull oblivion
In nameless graves ye sleep:
Untaught and roughly nurtured,
If faint in you the flame
Of loftier aspiration
That fires the soul to fame—
If life's best lore ye know not,
Yet this at least ye know,
To fight, to die for England,
When England bids you go.
We, nursed in high traditions,
And trained to nobler thought,
Deem, haply, death less bitter
Than life too dearly bought:
Sharp spurs have we to honour,
But ye without their aid
Rush on the deadly breaches,
And storm the barricade:
Though oft your lives belie you—
Rude hands and ruder lips—
At least ye shine transfigured
In death's apocalypse,
When by one deed that washes
Each soul as white as snow,
From merely man grown godlike,
To God at last ye go.
And trained to nobler thought,
Deem, haply, death less bitter
Than life too dearly bought:
Sharp spurs have we to honour,
But ye without their aid
Rush on the deadly breaches,
And storm the barricade:
Though oft your lives belie you—
Rude hands and ruder lips—
At least ye shine transfigured
In death's apocalypse,
When by one deed that washes
Each soul as white as snow,
From merely man grown godlike,
To God at last ye go.
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