War Song

    IN anguish we uplift
       A new unhallowed song:
    The race is to the swift;
       The battle to the strong.

    Of old it was ordained
       That we, in packs like curs,
    Some thirty million trained
       And licensed murderers,

    In crime should live and act,
       If cunning folk say sooth
    Who flay the naked fact
       And carve the heart of truth.

    The rulers cry aloud,
       "We cannot cancel war,
    The end and bloody shroud
       Of wrongs the worst abhor,
    And order's swaddling band:
       Know that relentless strife
    Remains by sea and land
       The holiest law of life.
    From fear in every guise,
       From sloth, from lust of pelf,
    By war's great sacrifice
       The world redeems itself.
    War is the source, the theme
       Of art; the goal, the bent
    And brilliant academe
       Of noble sentiment;
    The augury, the dawn
       Of golden times of grace;
    The true catholicon,
       And blood-bath of the race."

    We thirty million trained
       And licensed murderers,
    Like zanies rigged, and chained
       By drill and scourge and curse
    In shackles of despair
       We know not how to break --
    What do we victims care
       For art, what interest take
    In things unseen, unheard?
       Some diplomat no doubt
    Will launch a heedless word,
       And lurking war leap out!

    We spell-bound armies then,
       Huge brutes in dumb distress,
    Machines compact of men
       Who once had consciences,
    Must trample harvests down --
       Vineyard, and corn and oil;
    Dismantle town by town,
       Hamlet and homestead spoil
    On each appointed path,
       Till lust of havoc light
    A blood-red blaze of wrath
       In every frenzied sight.

    In many a mountain pass,
       Or meadow green and fresh,
    Mass shall encounter mass
       Of shuddering human flesh;
    Opposing ordnance roar
       Across the swaths of slain,
    And blood in torrents pour
       In vain -- always in vain,
    For war breeds war again!

    The shameful dream is past,
       The subtle maze untrod:
    We recognise at last
       That war is not of God.

        John Davidson