Classic Poem

Said King Peter to his people, thinned by everlasting war:
“I am old, and grey, and feeble, I can lead my troops no more.
I can see no sign of succour on the earth, or in the sky;
Fight alone! and to the last man!—and, if Servia falls, I die!”

Once again the grand old signal flashes from the distant hills,
Wireless, as of old, and hopeless, yet it heartens and it thrills!
“Hold them back, for we are coming!” and the Hopeless dare not doubt,
And the heartsick Servian general answers, “We are holding out.”

“Hold them back, for we are coming, we, the greatest and the least,
From the Stately Homes of England and the slums of London East!
From the depths of wicked Paris and the halls where ladies dance—
From the sunny southern vineyards of the pleasant land of France.

“From the blunders of our masters, beaten once, but undismayed;
From the Dardanelles and Egypt we are coming to your aid!
From the sandwastes of the Never, from the wool barge and the track,
From the hills of fern and tussock, we are coming. Hold them back!”