18-5-02

A Night Attack

Dark is the night and drear the storm,
And a human life is onward borne
To victory or the grave.
The rifles crack, the cannons roar.
And he may ne’er see daylight more,
But he’s no craven knave.
He charges on, his battle cry
Resounds like a trumpet from the sky,
Midst the wounded and the slain.
He knows no fear, his life is nought.
His honour it can ne’er be bought,
He fights for love not gain.

He tramples on his foemen there,
And in his rage is lo[a]th to spare
A being of their race.

The fight is over, he’s calm again,
He lacks not like a man of fame.
No rage lights up distorts his face.

But when that awful fiery glare
Lights up those eyes so blue and fair,
He looks a demon then.
He looks the man to face grim death,
Would never hesitate a breath,
Would face a host of men.

And then again, those eyes so blue,
Are soft and sweet as morning dew,
A world is seen in them.
They look the whole world in the face,
For a Briton true, knows no disgrace,
And he fears not any man.

WE