Classic Poem

Prince , and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame,
Plot, and plunder, and disagree!
O but the game is a royal game!
O but your tourneys are fair to see!

None too hopeful we found our lives;
Sore was labor from day to day;
Still we strove for our babes and wives—
Now, to the trumpet, we march away!

“Why?”—For some one hath willed it so!
Nothing we know of the why or the where—
To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow—
Nothing we know, and little we care.

Give us to kill!—since this is the end
Of love and labor in Nature's plan;
Give us to kill and ravish and rend,
Yea, since this is the end of man.

States shall perish, and states be born:
Leaders, out of the throng, shall press,—
Some to honor, and some to scorn:
We, that are little, shall yet be less.

Over our lines shall the vulture soar;
Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry;
And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore;
And daily the living shall pray to die.

Nay, what matter!—When all is said,
Prince and Bishop will plunder still:
Lord and Lady must dance and wed.
Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!