When The Regiment Came Back

All the world was wearying,
    All the world was sad;
Everything was shadow-filled;
    Things were going bad.
Then a rumour stirred all hearts
    As a wind stirs trees -
Ten thousand men a day
    Coming over seas!

Soon we saw them marching by -
    God! what a sight! -
Shoulders back, and heads erect,
    Faces full of light.
Smiling like a morn in May,
    Moving like a breeze,
Ten thousand men a day
    Coming over seas.

Weary soldiers worn with war
    Lifted up their eyes,
Shadows seemed to fade a bit,
    Dawn was in the skies.
Hope sprang to troubled hearts,
    Strength to tired knees:
Ten thousand men a day
    Were coming over seas.

France and England swarmed with them,
    Khaki-clad ...

I had seen our splendid soldiers in their khaki uniforms,
    And their leaders with a Sam Brown belt;
I had seen the fighting Britons and Colonials in swarms,
    I had seen the blue-clad Frenchmen, and I felt
That the mighty martial show
Had no new sight to bestow,
    Till I walked on Piccadilly, and my word!
By the bonnie Highland laddies
In their kilts and their plaidies,
    To a wholly new sensation I was stirred.

They were like some old-time picture, or a scene from out a play,
    They were stalwart, they were young, and debonnair;
Their jaunty little caps they wore in such a fetching way,
    And they showed their handsome legs, and didn't care -
And they seemed to own the town
As they strode on up and down -
    Oh, they surely were a sight fo...

There was no wind, and yet the air
    Seemed suddenly astir;
There were no forms, and yet all space
    Seemed thronged with growing hosts.
They came from Where, and from Nowhere,
    Like phantoms as they were;
They came from many a land and place -
    The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.

And some were white, and some were grey,
    And some were red as blood -
Those ghosts of men who met their death
    Upon the field of war.
Against the skies of fading day,
    Like banks of cloud they stood;
And each wraith asked another wraith,
    'What were we fighting for?'

One said, 'I was my mother's all;
    And she was old and blind.'
Another, 'Back on earth, my wife
    And week-old baby lie.'
Another, 'At the bugle's call,
  ...

The cruel war was over - oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between,
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And every one was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, t...

Oh the Kings of earth have mobilised their men.
See them moving, valour proving,
To the fields of glory going,
Banners flowing, bugles blowing,
Every one a mother's son,
Brave with uniform and gun,
Keeping step with easy swing,
Yes, with easy step and light marching onward to the fight,
Just to please the warlike fancy of a King;
Who has mobilised his army for the strife.

Oh the King of Death has mobilised his men.
See the hearses huge and black
How they rumble down the track;
With their coffins filled with dead,
Filled with men who fought and bled;
Now from fields of glory coming
To the sound of muffled drumming
They are lying still and white,
But the Kings have had their fight;
Death has mobilised his army for the grave.

I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,