Wide are the plains to the north and the westward;
Drear are the skies to the west and the north—
Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles,
And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth.
Cold are the plains to the north and the westward,
Stretching out far to the grey of the sky—
Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room,
Willing and ready, if need be, to die.
Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets;
Firm and erect was each man in his place;
Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans;
Smiling and fearless was every face;
Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them;
Never a fear of war’s terrible scenes;
‘Brave as the bravest,’ was stamped on each face of them;
Half of them boys not yet out of their teens.
Many a woman gazed down at them longingly,
Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed;
Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him,
Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last.
Many a maiden’s cheek paled as she looked at them,
Seeing the lover from whom she must part;
Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him,
Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.
Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them,
Beat as it never had beaten before;
Every voice of us, choked though it may have been,
Broke from huzza to a deafening roar.
Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us,
Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight;
Swift at their country’s call, ready each man and all,
Eager to battle for her and the right.
Wide are the plains to the north and the westward,
Stretching out far to the grey of the sky—
Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room,
Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die.
Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them;
Straight on they marched to the dread battle’s brunt—
Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them,
Canada’s call found them all at the front.
Stuart Livingston.
