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Robert W Service - The Song Of The Soldier-BornRobert W Service - The Song Of The Soldier-Born
Work rating: Medium


Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant. Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; A soldier`s billet at night and a soldier`s ration; A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier`s passion. For I hold as a simple faith there`s no denying: The trade of a soldier`s the only trade worth plying; The death of a soldier`s the only death worth dying. So let me go and leave your safety behind me; Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; Go till the word is War and then you will find me. Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . And when it`s over, spurn me and no longer heed me. For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, And a million of men go down, it`s little it matters. . . . There`s the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. There`s a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; There`s a hope that`s as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; There`s a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. Ah no! it`s my dream that War will never be ended; That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, I`ll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory. So give me a strong right arm for a wrong`s swift righting; Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.
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