The Years Between Part 3

THE HOLY WAR

1917

('For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto'--BUNYAN'S _Holy War_)

_A tinker out of Bedford, A vagrant oft in quod, A private under Fairfax, A minister of G.o.d-- Two hundred years and thirty Ere Armageddon came His single hand portrayed it, And Bunyan was his name!_

He mapped, for those who follow, The world in which we are-- 'This famous town of Mansoul'

That takes the Holy War Her true and traitor people, The gates along her wall, From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate, John Bunyan showed them all.

All enemy divisions, Recruits of every cla.s.s, And highly-screened positions For flame or poison-gas, The craft that we call modern, The crimes that we call new, John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed In Sixteen Eighty-two

Likewise the Lords of Looseness That hamper faith and works, The Perseverance-Doubters, And Present-Comfort s.h.i.+rks, With brittle intellectuals Who crack beneath a strain-- John Bunyan met that helpful set In Charles the Second's reign.

Emmanuel's vanguard dying For right and not for rights, My Lord Apollyon lying To the State-kept Stockholmites, The Pope, the swithering Neutrals, The Kaiser and his Gott-- Their roles, their goals, their naked souls-- He knew and drew the lot.

Now he hath left his quarters, In Bunhill Fields to lie.

The wisdom that he taught us Is proven prophecy-- One watchword through our armies, One answer from our lands-- 'No dealings with Diabolus As long as Mansoul stands.

_A pedlar from a hovel, The lowest of the low, The father of the Novel, Salvation's first Defoe, Eight blinded generations Ere Armageddon came, He showed us how to meet it, And Bunyan was his name!_

THE HOUSES

(A SONG OF THE DOMINIONS)

1898

'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad, In thy house or my house is half the world's h.o.a.rd; By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate, On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.

For my house and thy house no help shall we find Save thy house and my house--kin cleaving to kind: If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon, If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be Of heads.h.i.+p or lords.h.i.+p, or service or fee?

Since my house to thy house no greater can send Than thy house to my house--friend comforting friend; And thy house to my house no meaner can bring Than my house to thy house--King counselling King.

RUSSIA TO THE PACIFISTS

G.o.d rest you, peaceful gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, But--leave your sports a little while--the dead are borne this way!

Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.

G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there?

Singing.--Break ground for a wearied host That have no ground to keep.

Give them the rest that they covet most, And who shall next to sleep, good sirs, In such a trench to sleep?

G.o.d rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pa.s.s.

We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.

For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride Three hundred years it flourished--in three hundred days it died.

Singing--Pour oil for a frozen throng, That lie about the ways.

Give them the warmth they have lacked so long And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs, On such a pyre to blaze?

G.o.d rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!

Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight, Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire, And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.

Singing.--Break bread for a starving folk That perish in the field.

Give them their food as they take the yoke ...

And who shall be next to yield, good sirs, For such a bribe to yield?

G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!

Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?

'Twixt the summer and the snow--seeding-time and frost-- Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!

Singing:--_Let down by the foot and the head-- Shovel and smooth it all!

So do we bury a Nation dead ..._ And who shall be next to fall, good sirs, With your good help to fall?

THE IRISH GUARDS

1918

We're not so old in the Army List, But we're not so young at our trade, For we had the honour at Fontenoy Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.

'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare, And Lee that led us then, And after a hundred and seventy years We're fighting for France again!

_Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting, And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!_

The fas.h.i.+on's all for khaki now, But once through France we went Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth, The English--left at Ghent They're fighting on our side to-day.

But, before they changed their clothes, The half of Europe knew our fame, As all of Ireland knows!

_Old Days! The wild geese are flying, Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish there's memory undying, And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!_

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt, From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge, The ancient days come back no more Than water under the bridge But the bridge it stands and the water runs As red as yesterday, And the Irish move to the sound of the guns Like salmon to the sea.

_Old Days! The wild geese are ranging, Head to the storm as they faced it before!

For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging, And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!

Ireland no more!_

We're not so old in the Army List, But we're not so new in the ring, For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe When Louis was our King.

But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now And we're King George's men, And after one hundred and seventy years We're fighting for France again!