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The Song Of The Soldier-Born Analysis



Author: poem of Robert Service Type: poem Views: 2

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Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;

Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;

Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.




Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;

A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;

A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.



For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying:

The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying;

The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.



So let me go and leave your safety behind me;

Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me;

Go till the word is War -- and then you will find me.



Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me;

Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . .

And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.



For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry;

With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry;

You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.



You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking;

You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking;

You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.



Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters,

And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . .

There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.



There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for;

There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for;

There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.



Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended;

That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid;

That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.



That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story;

That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary,

I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.



So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting;

Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting;

Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.







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