The Wayside Burial

They’re bringing in their recent dead – their recent dead! I see the shoulder badge: a ‘Southern crush.’ How small he looks – (O damn that singing thrush!) Not give foot five from boots to battered head! Give him a kindly burial, my friends, – So much is due, when some such loyal life ends! ‘For Country!’ Ay, and so our brave do die: Comrade unknown, good rest to you! – Good-bye! They’re bringing their recent dead! – No pomp, no show: A dingy khaki crowd – his friends, his own. I, too, would like – (God, how that wind does moan!) – To be laid down by friends: it’s sweetest so! A young life, as I take it; just a lad— (How cold it blows; and that grey sky, how sad!) – And yet: ‘For Country’ – so a man should die: Comrade unknown, good rest to you! – Good-bye! They’re burying their dead! – I wonder now: A wife? – or mother? Mother it must be – In some trim home that fronts the English sea. (A sea-coast country: that the badges show.) And she? – I sense her grief, I feel her tears! ‘This, then, the garnered harvest of my years!’ And he? ‘For Country, dear, a man must die!’ Comrade unknown, good rest to you! – Good-bye! It’s reeded: he is buried! Comrade, sleep! A wooden cross at your brave head will stand. A cross of wood? A Calvary! – The Land For whose sake you laid down sweet life, will keep Watch, lad, and ward that none may bring to shame. That Name for which you died! ‘What’s in a name’? – England shall answer! Thou will hear Her cry: ‘Well done, my own! my son – good rest: Good-bye!’