Classic Poem

You may see his eye shine brightly, for he bears his burden lightly,
As he makes his journey nightly up the long road from Bethune,
With his bayonet briskly swinging, and you'll hear him singing, singing,
In the silence and the silver, molten silver, of the moon.

Young and eager—bright his face is, spirit of the shrapneled places
Where the homes are battered, broken, and the land in ruin lies.
But the young adventure burning gives him never time for yearning,
And the natal flame of roving gleams like lightning in his eyes.

What awaits you, boy, out yonder, where the great guns rip and thunder?
There's a menace in their message—guns that called you from afar.
But where'er your fortunes guide you may no woe or ill betide you—
Heaven speed you, little soldier, gaily going to the war.