Marching On

I

I heard the young lads singing
In the still morning air,
Gaily the notes came ringing
Across the lilac'd square;
They sang like happy children
Who know not doubt or care,
"As WE GO MARCHING ON."

And each one sloped a rifle
And each one bore a pack;
They had no grief to stifle,
No tears to weep, alack;
They were too blithe to question
Which of them should come back,
As they went marching on.

II

Oh, thou whose eyes are sorrow,
And whose soul is sorrowing,
Who knowest that each to-morrow
A deeper woe may bring,
And knowest that all the comfort
Is the very littlest thing
While they go marching on;

These sons of thine seek glory,
As the bridegroom seeks the bride,
And who shall tell the story
Of their triumph and their pride?
Like lovers, for the love of thee
They have lain them down and died;
And they go marching on.

III

They march by field and city,
By every road and way,
A march which angels pity
And none may stop or stay
Till the last head is rested
On the last crimson clay;
So they go marching on!

They march in the broad sunlight
And by the lovers' moon,
Into the flame and gun-light
From morns and eves of June,
And Death for their entrancèd feet
Pipes an obsequious tune,
And keeps them marching on.

IV

And mid the battle thunder,
And in the fields of blood,
They see the untarnished wonder,
The healing, and the good
Which passeth understanding
And can not be understood;
And they go marching on.

They see the rose's brightness
Made perfect and complete,
Lilies and snows of whiteness,
And wings of gold that beat
For ever and for ever
Before the Paraclete;
And they go marching on.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, born on July 21, 1865, was an English author, poet, journalist, and friend of major literary figures such as W.B. Yeats and Ezra Pound. Crosland's writing encompassed a wide range of subjects, and he was known for his satirical works. His legacy includes a robust body of prose and poetry, which has been recognized for its wit and social critique. He died on December 23, 1924.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

To Prince Edward Of York

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

To The Tripper

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

To The Poet Laureate

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

Titanic

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland, Simple Poetry

English

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Before Marching And After

(in Memoriam F. W. G.)



Orion swung southward aslant
Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned,
The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant
With the heather that twitched in the wind;
But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these,
Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow,
And wondered to what he would march on the morrow.

The crazed household-clock with its whirr
Rang midnight within as he stood,
He heard the low sighing of her
Who had striven from his birth for his good;
But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze,
What great thing or small thing his history would borrow
From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow.

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The March Of The Workers

What is this, the sound and rumour?    What is this that all men hear,
Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near,
Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear?
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            Hark the rolling of the thunder!
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Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and
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The Marching Morrows.

Now gird thee well for courage,
My knight of twenty year,
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That fill the world with fear!

The flowers fade before them;
The summer leaves the hill;
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And those who hear grow still.

Like pillagers of harvest,
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As gray remorseless troopers
That plunder and maraud.

The dust is on their corselets;
Their marching fills the world;
With conquest after conquest
Their banners are unfurled.

They overthrow the battles
Of every lord of war,
From world-dominioned cities
Wipe out the names they bore.

Sohrab, Rameses, Roland,
Ramoth, Napoleon, Tyre,
And the Romeward Huns of Attila--
Alas, for their desire!

By April a...

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Postscript "Men Who March Away" (Song Of The Soldiers)

What of the faith and fire within us
    Men who march away
    Ere the barn-cocks say
    Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
    Men who march away?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
    Friend with the musing eye,
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Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
    Friend with the musing eye?

Nay. We well see what we are doing,
    Though some may not see -
    Dalliers as they be -
    England's need are we;
Her distress would leave us rueing:
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    Though some may not see!

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Rugby Chapel

Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent; hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the school-room windows; but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.

There thou dost lie, in the gloom
Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word, gloom, to my mind
Brings thee back, in the light
Of thy radiant vigour, again;
In the gloom of November we pass'd
Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impair'd not the ray
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
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Presage Of Victory

I


Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,
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And then I knew, then first,
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In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs,
And streets confused with streets in clanging towns--
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Then first I knew how the vast world-disease
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