For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweethearts
of the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")
I
'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Should suddenly become such men
That England rings with praise of them.
But tho' their names are writ in blood
—Deepening crimson flood on flood—
Their impositions writ awry
And copybooks are hardly dry;
And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissed
The boy to man, when the blue mist
Of twilight lifted; and the dawn
Announced that rosy day was born.
As pink-curled clouds lit up the sky
A little gentle breeze whisked by
Caressing all the poppy-heads—
Rippling fields of budding reds—
Splashes of yellow sunned the earth
Where mustard meadows flowered mirth;
And cornflowers blue ran out to meet
The blue around God's Mercy-seat.
O! all the world and all the sky
Made it a sacrifice to die.
II
'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday,
Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts
With darling rosy-fingered arts,
Did cheer with strong expectancy
The shattering artillery;
And smilingly went o'er the top
Unflinchingly without a stop
Into the poppied "No Man's Land."
Wave after wave, band after band,
Through the terror of bursting shells,
Through the noise of a thousand hells,
Through th' unmanning groans of pain,
Through the blood of the splendid slain
Lying under a blue-cupped sky,
As wave after wave swept bravely by.
From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue
Hundreds of souls are passing thro',
And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives:
O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.
III
'Tis passing wonderful that they,
The little boys of yesterday
Who played with us, who teased us too,
Should such tremendous actions do.
No praise, no honour is too high
For those who gave so cheerfully:
Gave up the wonder of the spring,
Gave up the wealth that summers bring,
Gave up the gold of autumn's store,
Leaving us richer than before.
Unflinching bravery of soul!
Ring out your splendid deathless toll,
Ring down the years untiringly
In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be.
The carillon of your ideals
You'll hear again in their sweet peals;
God grant that we may squarely fight
For all you held to be upright.
LEEDS, July 1st, 1917.