Trained to another use, We march with colours furled, Only concerned when Death breaks loose On a front of half a world.

Only for General Death The Yellow Flag may fly, While we take post beneath-- That is the place for a spy.

Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions-- Then will be work for a spy!

The dropping shots begin, The single funerals pa.s.s, Our skirmishers run in, The corpses dot the gra.s.s!

The howling towns stampede, The tainted hamlets die.

Now it is war indeed-- Now there is room for a spy!

O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands-- What is the work for a spy?

(DRUMS)--_'Fear is upon us, spy!_

'Go where his pickets hide-- Unmask the shapes they take, Whether a gnat from the waterside, Or stinging fly in the brake, Or filth of the crowded street, Or a sick rat limping by, Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat-- That is the work of a spy!

(DRUMS)--_Death is upon us, spy!_

'What does he next prepare?

Whence will he move to attack?-- By water, earth or air?-- How can we head him back?

Shall we starve him out if we burn Or bury his food-supply?

Slip through his lines and learn-- That is work for a spy!

(DRUMS)--_Get to your business, spy!_

'Does he feint or strike in force?

Will he charge or ambuscade?

What is it checks his course?

Is he beaten or only delayed?

How long will the lull endure?

Is he retreating? Why?

Crawl to his camp and make sure-- That is the work for a spy!

(DRUMS)--_Fetch us our answer, spy!_

'Ride with him girth to girth Wherever the Pale Horse wheels, Wait on his councils, ear to earth, And say what the dust reveals.

For the smoke of our torment rolls Where the burning thousands lie; What do we care for men's bodies or souls?

Bring us deliverance, spy!'

THE SONS OF MARTHA

The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part, But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.

And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.

It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.

It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains 'Be ye removed.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.'

Under their rods are the rocks reproved--they are not afraid of that which is high.

Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit--then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.

He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.

Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.

They are concerned with matters hidden--under the earth-line their altars are.

The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their G.o.d will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.

They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they d.a.m.n-well choose.

As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat, Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!

Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed--they know the angels are on their side.

They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.

They sit at the Feet--they hear the Word--they see how truly the Promise runs: They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and--the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!

MARY'S SON

If you stop to find out what your wages will be And how they will clothe and feed you, Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea, For the Sea will never need you.

If you ask for the reason of every command, And argue with people about you, Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land, For the Land will do better without you.

If you stop to consider the work you have done And to boast what your labour is worth, dear, Angels may come for you, Willie, my son, But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!

THE SONG OF THE LATHES

1918

(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, widow.)

The fans and the beltings they roar round me.

The power is shaking the floor round me Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.

It is good for me to be here!

_Guns in Flanders--Flanders guns!

(I had a man that worked 'em once!) Sh.e.l.ls for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

Sh.e.l.ls for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

Sh.e.l.ls for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!_