Last Poems | Page 2

hard is the bed they have made him,
And common the blanket and cheap;
But there he will lie as they laid
him:
Where else could you trust him to sleep?
To sleep when the bugle is crying
And cravens have heard and are brave,
When mothers and
sweethearts are sighing
And lads are in love with the grave.
Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,
And lights and companions depart;
But lief will he lose them and
only
Behold the desire of his heart.
And low is the roof, but it covers
A sleeper content to repose;
And far from his friends and his lovers
He lies with the sweetheart he chose.
V
GRENADIER
The Queen she sent to look for me,
The sergeant he did say,
‘Young man, a soldier will you be

For thirteen pence a day?’
For thirteen pence a day did I
Take off the things I wore,
And I have marched to where I lie,
And I shall march no more.
My mouth is dry, my shirt is wet,
My blood runs all away,
So now I shall not die in debt
For thirteen pence a day.
To-morrow after new young men
The sergeant he must see,
For things will all be over then
Between the Queen and me.
And I shall have to bate my price,
For in the grave, they say,
Is neither knowledge nor device
Nor thirteen pence a day.
VI
LANCER
I ‘listed at home for a lancer,
/Oh who would not sleep with the brave?/
I ‘listed at home for a
lancer
To ride on a horse to my grave.
And over the seas we were bidden

A country to take and to keep;
And far with the brave I have ridden,
And now with the brave I shall sleep.
For round me the men will be lying
That learned me the way to behave.
And showed me my business of
dying:
/Oh who would not sleep with the brave?/
They ask and there is not an answer;
Says I, I will ‘list for a lancer,
/Oh who would not sleep with the brave?/
And I with the brave shall be sleeping
At ease on my mattress of loam,
When back from their taking and
keeping
The squadron is riding home.
The wind with the plumes will be playing,
The girls will stand watching them wave,
And eyeing my comrades
and saying
/Oh who would not sleep with the brave?/
They ask and there is not an answer;
Says you, I will ‘list for a lancer,
/Oh who would not sleep with the brave?/
VII
In valleys green and still
Where lovers wander maying
They hear from over hill

A music playing.
Behind the drum and fife,
Past hawthornwood and hollow,
Through earth and out of life
The soldiers follow.
The soldier’s is the trade:
In any wind or weather
He steals the heart of maid
And man together.
The lover and his lass
Beneath the hawthorn lying
Have heard the soldiers pass,
And both are sighing.
And down the distance they
With dying note and swelling
Walk the resounding way
To the still dwelling.
VIII
Soldier from the wars returning,
Spoiler of the taken town,
Here is ease that asks not earning;
Turn you in and sit you down.
Peace is come and wars are over,
Welcome you and welcome all,
While the charger crops the clover
And his bridle hangs in stall.

Now no more of winters biting,
Filth in trench from fall to spring,
Summers full of sweat and fighting
For the Kesar or the King.
Rest you, charger, rust you, bridle;
Kings and kesars, keep your pay;
Soldier, sit you down and idle
At the inn of night for aye.
IX
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the
pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there’s an end of May.
There’s one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of our little store.
May will be fine next year as
like as not:
Oh ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to
emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the
merriment as you and I

Fare on our long fool’s-errand to the grave.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the
estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.
If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other
bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity,