Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
Russia to the Pacifists
G
But—leave your sports a little while—the dead are borne this way!
Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.
God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there?
Singing:—Break ground for a wearied host
That have no ground to keep.
Give them the rest that they covet most …
And who shall next to sleep, good sirs,
In such a trench to sleep?
We go to dig a nation’s grave as great as England was.
For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride
Three hundred years it flourished—in three hundred days it died.
Singing:—Pour oil for a frozen throng,
That lie about the ways.
Give them the warmth they have lacked so long …
And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,
On such a pyre to blaze?
Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,
Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,
And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.
Singing:—Break bread for a starving folk
That perish in the field.
Give them their food as they take the yoke …
And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,
For such a bribe to yield?
Was ever Kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?
’Twixt the summer and the snow—seeding-time and frost—
Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!
Singing:—Let down by the foot and the head—
Shovel and smooth it all!
So do we bury a Nation dead …
And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,
With your good help to fall?