I SING the song of the great clean guns that belch forth death at will.
"Ah, but the wailing mothers, the lifeless forms and still!"
I sing the song of the billowing flags, the bugles that cry before.
"Ah, but the skeletons flapping rags, the lips that speak no more!"
I sing the clash of bayonets, of sabres that flash and cleave.
"And wilt thou sing the maimed ones, too, that go with pinnedup sleeve?”
I sing acclaimed generals that bring the victory home.
"Ah, but the broken bodies that drip like honey-comb!"
I sing of hosts triumphant, long ranks of marching men.
"And wilt thou sing the shadowy hosts that never march again?"