This is the thing we fight: A cry of terror in the night; A ship on work of mercy bent— A carrier of the sick and maimed— Beneath the cruel waters sent, And those that did it, unashamed. A woman who had tried to fill A mother`s place; had nursed the ill And soothed the troubled brows of pain And earned the dying`s grateful prayers, Before a wall by soldiers slain! And such a poor pretext was theirs! Old women pierced by bayonets grim And babies slaughtered for a whim, Cathedrals made the sport of shells, No mercy, even for a child, As though the imps of all the hells Were crazed with drink and running wild. All this we fight—that some day when Good sense shall come again to men, Our children`s children may not read This age`s history thus defamed And find we served a selfish creed And ever be of us ashamed!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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