Classic Poem

Onward ye go, our brave lads, in your marching,
High shrill the pipes, keep ye time with your feet,
Lift up your heads to the grey sky o'erarching,
Take one long look at the grey city street!

Your all and in all ye heaped upon the altar,
Flung to war's flame your being — life and limb;
Of the less or more ye would not stoop to palter,
Ye poured out the wine-cup running o'er the brim.

Youth with its joys of living and of loving,
All that you were and all you were to be,
Longings that brood, and hopes that go a-roving,
Ye counted them but loss for the dear country!

We who abide within the old grey city,
The old round treading 'neath the old grey skies,
Think ye we wrong you with one thought of pity? —
Nay, nay, dear hearts, we are too sad and wise.

Is it not written for the soul's slow learning,
When the burnt offering began to smoke,
Lo, the Lord's song went upward in the burning,
Lo, the priests' trumpets into triumph broke?

Yea, and we too, altho' we shrink and falter,
Raise the Lord's song, albeit sad and low;
Yea, thro' the smoke and flaming of the altar,
Triumph the trumpets — for we let you go!

So on ye go, our brave lads, in your marching,
To the high pipes beat ye time with your feet,
Lift up your heads to the grey sky o'erarching,
Take one long look at the grey city street!