  —Rudyard Kipling The last resort of Kings are we, but the voice of peoples too— Ask the guns of Valmy Ridge— Lost at the Beresina Bridge, When the Russian guns were roaring death and the Guard was charging through. Ultima Ratio Regis, we—but he who has may hold, Se curantes Dei curant, Hear the gunners that strain and pant, As when before the rising gale the Great Armada rolled. Guns of fifty—sixty tons that roared at Jutland fight, Clatter and clang of hoisting shell; See the flame where the salvo fell Amidst the flash of German guns against the wall of white. The sons of English carronade or Spanish culverin— The Danish windows shivered and broke When over the sea the children spoke, We have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord, Load us well and sponge us clean— Be your woman a slave or queen— And we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword. We come into our own again and wake to life anew— Put your paper and pens away, For the whole of the world is ours to-day, And it's we who'll do the talking now to smooth the way for you. Howitzer gun or Seventy-five, the game is ours to play, And hills may quiver and mountains shake, But the line in front shall bend or break. What is it to us if the world is mad? For we are the kings to-day. Klaxon By permission of Wm. Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh |
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