| |
| THERE is no word of thanks to hear, | |
| No word of praise to gain, | |
| But we, that must, in sun and dust, | |
| Tramp on across the plain: | |
| We know not how the orders come, | 5 |
| Who bids the bugle blow … | |
| But we, that may, track out the way | |
| Our comrades soon shall go. | |
| |
| Far, far behind our army drags | |
| The wagons and the guns; | 10 |
| Along the line, beneath the flags, | |
| A noise of cheering runs; | |
| Full-seen in all the blaze of noon | |
| Set forth its proud array… | |
| But we were up beneath the moon | 15 |
| And out before the day. | |
| |
| Where age-long in the dank ravine | |
| A swamp-fed forest grew, | |
| ’Tis we that back the jungle back | |
| To let the sunlight through; | 20 |
| Across the desert no man dared, | |
| Up cliffs where none might win, | |
| By down and dale we blaze the trail, | |
| The highway for our kin. | |
| |
| The noonday or the nightfall knows | 25 |
| The flickering of our fires, | |
| The flung-down pack, the stretcht repose, | |
| The talk of dreamt desires. | |
| We camp, and go, and care no jot | |
| How soon, how far we roam… | 30 |
| But each camp-fire has marked a spot | |
| That men shall call their home. | |
| |
| A sudden bullet flicks the air, | |
| A comrade slacks his stride; | |
| Small time have we for surgery | 35 |
| Whose errand may not bide: | |
| Stanch, as you go, the jetting blood, | |
| Set teeth against the pain, | |
| And feel the grip of comradeship | |
| Stir you to strength again. | 40 |
| |
| Ours is the shattering night-surprise, | |
| The crawl of lifelong days, | |
| The slow set stare of aching eyes | |
| Across the drifted haze: | |
| Lonely in hidden lairs we spy | 45 |
| The march of stealthy foes; | |
| What work we do, what death we die, | |
| Not even a comrade knows. | |
| |
| By beaten roads the mainguard goes | |
| With banner and with band; | 50 |
| Yet we, that dare, find everywhere | |
| New work that fits our hand; | |
| We know not how the orders come … | |
| But hark! the bugles blow: | |
| Across the plain day breaks again; | 55 |
| Pick up the packs, and go! | |
| |
