When Cohen died, he prayed,
When Jones kicked in, he swore,
But I reckon it meant the same
To the guy at the golden door,
For there was a cuss in Ike's prayer,
I'm afraid,
And a prayer in Jonesy's cuss. . . .
So it seemed to us.
There's poppies enough to go round,
And crosses to stick in the ground,
There's heaven for them that were blest,
And medals enough for the rest.
I remember what Ike once said:
" This business has gone to my head,
It's made me as mad as a loon. . . .
D'ye think it'll sizzle out soon? "
Eh-oh, my brother Jesus,
They rigged you up in state,
In a khaki coat and a gun to tote,
Did they think you could learn to hate?
The valleys are drowned in the morning mist,
The hill is an island of gold,
But your eyes are unstirred by the wonder, unwist,
Ah, lad, and your face is cold. . . .
The armies have gathered and gone,
My buddy and I are alone,
A queer little body at that,
With a hole through the top of his hat,
A queer little soul to the last,
No fuss, just crumpled, and passed. . . .
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
Eh-oh, my little brother,
They rigged you up in state,
In a khaki coat and a gun to tote,
But you never could learn to hate.
We buried Jesus on the hill.
Glory hallelujah!
The rain soaked down and the wind blew shrill.
Glory hallelujah!
Cheer up, soldier, sling your gun,
What's been done can't be undone,
We'll all be buried, every one.
Glory hallelujah!
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
You'll never see your buck no more,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
He's a-struttin' through the golden door,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
He's oglin' all the cherubim,
An' the Lord Hisself is a-greetin' him.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
Have you ever seen a nigger's blood?
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
It's red as my own, an' jest as good.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I've seen it drip from a slatherin' wound,
A-droppin' an' seepin' into the ground.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I saw him grin an' hold his side,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
A-soppin' dark with the red life-tide.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I laid him down in the mud to sleep,
An' prayed the Lord his soul to keep.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
It took a shrapnel shell,
Spat from the jaws of hell,
To bust the color line,
Till even a fool could tell
A nigger's a man, and man's divine.
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
" Let us pray for the souls of the slain. "
That sounds all right, in the main;
No great harm done, I guess,
It'll ease us of dreariness. . . .
The guns are plowing the earth,
This is the red dawn's birth,
And sowing a terrible seed,
And reaping the crop with speed. . . .
Why are the guns so greedy?
Why are the reapers so needy?
Here's a guy with his guts all out,
Let's pray for him first, let us shout,
Maybe he'll hear us in time,
And turn his face from the slime. . . .
Wake up, Jesus, rouse up, lad!
Wake up, brother! ... It's too bad. . . .
Or maybe he wasn't Jesus at all,
But a thief, or a pimp in a dancing-hall;
That's what he was, and he offered me
Tribute of all his thievery
And the debutante whore of his dive,
If we should come out of the valley alive.
A thief, a pimp, so let him lie. . . .
We are good people you and I,
You will not have aught to say,
You will not want to pray. . . .
Ah, but the grass and the brambles cry:
" The ranks of the dead go marching by! "
It's a jolly world, if you watch the sight,
And it's man's inalienable right
To rot on a cross on Golgotha, forgot
By God and men, or break apart and rot
In a rat-invaded Flanders trench,
Contributing his carcass to the stench. . . .
Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .
To sleep. . . .
The sum and the glory is this,
The rest is but mise-en-scene ,
And if I have drawn it amiss
I'm a prattler and charlatan.
The crown and the cross and the night,
The darkness, and maybe a light. . . .
It is not easy to forget,
The rats and the slime are with me yet,
The heavy death that burst behind,
And the burning death that walked with the wind,
The oath half uttered,
The prayer half sputtered,
The mud and the blood and the broken flesh,
These things enmesh
My heart with an unbreakable net. . . .
It is not easy to forget. . . .
The sun is up in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord)
The lambs are glad in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord)
I'll meet my buddy in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord). . . .
Ike and the nigger and Jones, they came from the fields of death,
Sightless and broken and stark and wet with the damp of the heath,
Dragging a cross between them, huge and heavy and black,
They had gone their way together in a blundering night attack.
And Ike said: " After the wind and the rain
Little is left of my heart but the pain. "
And the nigger: " After the rain and the wind
Little is left me but eyes that are blind. "
And Jones said: " After the wind and the rain
The poppies grow out of my hands again. "
Out of my body the moss is fed,
The thorn-bush roots in my broken head,
And never the poppies so large and red.
Dust unto dust till the pain is dead. . . .
Pack up, buddy, you've done your little bit,
One more hike an' there's glory on the top!
What's that you're sayin' ...
you're not feelin' fit? ...
Buzzin' in your ears ...
an' thumpin' nigh to drop? ...
Why, damn your silly soul,
If your face ain't shot off whole. . . .
The last vigil is over,
From east to west
Leaps life's fierce lover;
Death is best,
Death is rest.
When Jones kicked in, he swore,
But I reckon it meant the same
To the guy at the golden door,
For there was a cuss in Ike's prayer,
I'm afraid,
And a prayer in Jonesy's cuss. . . .
So it seemed to us.
There's poppies enough to go round,
And crosses to stick in the ground,
There's heaven for them that were blest,
And medals enough for the rest.
I remember what Ike once said:
" This business has gone to my head,
It's made me as mad as a loon. . . .
D'ye think it'll sizzle out soon? "
Eh-oh, my brother Jesus,
They rigged you up in state,
In a khaki coat and a gun to tote,
Did they think you could learn to hate?
The valleys are drowned in the morning mist,
The hill is an island of gold,
But your eyes are unstirred by the wonder, unwist,
Ah, lad, and your face is cold. . . .
The armies have gathered and gone,
My buddy and I are alone,
A queer little body at that,
With a hole through the top of his hat,
A queer little soul to the last,
No fuss, just crumpled, and passed. . . .
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
Eh-oh, my little brother,
They rigged you up in state,
In a khaki coat and a gun to tote,
But you never could learn to hate.
We buried Jesus on the hill.
Glory hallelujah!
The rain soaked down and the wind blew shrill.
Glory hallelujah!
Cheer up, soldier, sling your gun,
What's been done can't be undone,
We'll all be buried, every one.
Glory hallelujah!
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
You'll never see your buck no more,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
He's a-struttin' through the golden door,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
He's oglin' all the cherubim,
An' the Lord Hisself is a-greetin' him.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
Have you ever seen a nigger's blood?
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
It's red as my own, an' jest as good.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I've seen it drip from a slatherin' wound,
A-droppin' an' seepin' into the ground.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I saw him grin an' hold his side,
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
A-soppin' dark with the red life-tide.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
I laid him down in the mud to sleep,
An' prayed the Lord his soul to keep.
(O Eliza, lil' Liza Jane)
It took a shrapnel shell,
Spat from the jaws of hell,
To bust the color line,
Till even a fool could tell
A nigger's a man, and man's divine.
The ranks of the dead go marching by,
What can Jesus do but die?
" Let us pray for the souls of the slain. "
That sounds all right, in the main;
No great harm done, I guess,
It'll ease us of dreariness. . . .
The guns are plowing the earth,
This is the red dawn's birth,
And sowing a terrible seed,
And reaping the crop with speed. . . .
Why are the guns so greedy?
Why are the reapers so needy?
Here's a guy with his guts all out,
Let's pray for him first, let us shout,
Maybe he'll hear us in time,
And turn his face from the slime. . . .
Wake up, Jesus, rouse up, lad!
Wake up, brother! ... It's too bad. . . .
Or maybe he wasn't Jesus at all,
But a thief, or a pimp in a dancing-hall;
That's what he was, and he offered me
Tribute of all his thievery
And the debutante whore of his dive,
If we should come out of the valley alive.
A thief, a pimp, so let him lie. . . .
We are good people you and I,
You will not have aught to say,
You will not want to pray. . . .
Ah, but the grass and the brambles cry:
" The ranks of the dead go marching by! "
It's a jolly world, if you watch the sight,
And it's man's inalienable right
To rot on a cross on Golgotha, forgot
By God and men, or break apart and rot
In a rat-invaded Flanders trench,
Contributing his carcass to the stench. . . .
Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .
To sleep. . . .
The sum and the glory is this,
The rest is but mise-en-scene ,
And if I have drawn it amiss
I'm a prattler and charlatan.
The crown and the cross and the night,
The darkness, and maybe a light. . . .
It is not easy to forget,
The rats and the slime are with me yet,
The heavy death that burst behind,
And the burning death that walked with the wind,
The oath half uttered,
The prayer half sputtered,
The mud and the blood and the broken flesh,
These things enmesh
My heart with an unbreakable net. . . .
It is not easy to forget. . . .
The sun is up in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord)
The lambs are glad in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord)
I'll meet my buddy in Jordan land,
(Carry me over, Lord). . . .
Ike and the nigger and Jones, they came from the fields of death,
Sightless and broken and stark and wet with the damp of the heath,
Dragging a cross between them, huge and heavy and black,
They had gone their way together in a blundering night attack.
And Ike said: " After the wind and the rain
Little is left of my heart but the pain. "
And the nigger: " After the rain and the wind
Little is left me but eyes that are blind. "
And Jones said: " After the wind and the rain
The poppies grow out of my hands again. "
Out of my body the moss is fed,
The thorn-bush roots in my broken head,
And never the poppies so large and red.
Dust unto dust till the pain is dead. . . .
Pack up, buddy, you've done your little bit,
One more hike an' there's glory on the top!
What's that you're sayin' ...
you're not feelin' fit? ...
Buzzin' in your ears ...
an' thumpin' nigh to drop? ...
Why, damn your silly soul,
If your face ain't shot off whole. . . .
The last vigil is over,
From east to west
Leaps life's fierce lover;
Death is best,
Death is rest.