St.
George's Day
To fill the gap, to bear the brunt
With bayonet and with spade,
Four Hundred to a four mile
front
unbacked and undismayed -
What men are these, of what
great race,
From what old shire or town
That run with such goodwill to
face Death
On a Flemish down ?
As men die, so die they,
Land of the free! Their life
is thine,
It is St.Georges Day
Yet say whose ardour bids them
stand
At bay by yonder bank,
Where a boy's voice and a
boy's hand
Close up the quivering rank.
Who under those all shattering
skies
Plays out his captain's part
With the last darkness in his
eyes
And Domon in his heart?
Let be, let be! in yonder line
All names are burned-away,
Land of his love! The fame be
thine,
It is St.Georges Day
