The Guards Came Through, and Other Poems. Doyle Arthur Conan

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      Men of the Twenty-first,

      Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,

      Weak from our wounds and our thirst,

      Wanting our sleep and our food

      After a day and a night.

      God! shall I ever forget?

      Beaten and broke in the fight,

      But sticking it, sticking it yet,

      Trying to hold the line,

      Fainting and spent and done;

      Always the thud and the whine,

      Always the yell of the Hun.

      Northumberland, Lancaster, York,

      Durham and Somerset,

      Fighting alone, worn to the bone,

      But sticking it, sticking it yet.

      Never a message of hope,

      Never a word of cheer,

      Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,

      With the dull, dead plain in our rear;

      Always the shriek of the shell,

      Always the roar of the burst,

      Always the tortures of Hell,

      As waiting and wincing we cursed

      Our luck, the guns, and the Boche.

      When our Corporal shouted “Stand to!”

      And I hear some one cry, “Clear the front for the Guards!” —

      And the Guards came through.

      Our throats they were parched and hot,

      But, Lord! if you'd heard the cheer,

      Irish, Welsh and Scot,

      Coldstream and Grenadier —

      Two Brigades, if you please,

      Dressing as straight as a hem.

      We, we were down on our knees,

      Praying for us and for them,

      Praying with tear-wet cheek,

      Praying with outstretched hand.

      Lord! I could speak for a week,

      But how could you understand?

      How could your cheeks be wet?

      Such feelin's don't come to you;

      But how can me or my mates forget

      How the Guards came through?

      “Five yards left extend!”

      It passed from rank to rank,

      And line after line, with never a bend,

      And a touch of the London swank.

      A trifle of swank and dash,

      Cool as a home parade,

      Twinkle, glitter and flash,

      Flinching never a shade,

      With the shrapnel right in their face,

      Doing their Hyde Park stunt,

      Swinging along at an easy pace,

      Arms at the trail, eyes front.

      Man! it was great to see!

      Man! it was great to do!

      It's a cot, and a hospital ward for me,

      But I'll tell them in Blighty wherever I be,

      How the Guards came through.

      How was it then with England?

      Her faith was true to her plighted word,

      Her strong hand closed on her blunted sword,

      Her heart rose high to the foeman's hate,

      She walked with God on the hills of Fate —

      And all was well with England.

      How was it then with England?

      Her soul was wrung with loss and pain,

      Her face was grey with her heart's-blood drain,

      But her falcon eyes were hard and bright,

      Austere and cold as an ice-cave's light —

      And all was well with England.

      How was it then with England?

      Little she said to foe or friend,

      True, heart true, to the uttermost end,

      Her passion cry was the scathe she wrought,

      In flame and steel she voiced her thought —

      And all was well with England.

      How was it then with England?

      With drooping sword and bended head,

      She turned apart and mourned her dead,

      Sad sky above, sad earth beneath,

      She walked with God in the Vale of Death —

      Ah, woe the day for England!

      How is it now with England?

      She sees upon her mist-girt path

      Dim drifting shapes of fear and wrath.

      Hold high the heart! Bend low the knee!

      She has been guided, and will be —

      And all is well with England.

      Where are those others? – the men who stood

      In the first wild spate of the German flood,

      And paid full price with their heart's best blood

      For the saving of you and me:

      French's Contemptibles, haggard and lean,

      Allenby's lads of the cavalry screen,

      Gunners who fell in Battery L,

      And Guardsmen of Landrecies?

      Where are those others who fought and fell,

      Outmanned, outgunned and scant of shell,

      On the deadly curve of the Ypres hell,

      Barring the coast to the last?

      Where are our laddies who died out there,

      From Poelcapelle to Festubert,

      When the days grew short and the poplars bare

      In the cold November blast?

      For us their toil and for us their pain,

      The sordid ditch in the sodden plain,

      The Flemish fog and the driving rain,

      The cold that cramped and froze;

      The weary night, the chill bleak day,

      When earth was dark and sky was grey,

      And the ragged weeds in the dripping clay

      Were all God's world to those.

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