Lying here awake, I hear the watchman’s warning—
‘Past four o’clock’—on this February morning;
Hark! what is that?—there swells a joyous shiver
Borne down the wind o’er the voices of the river;
O’er the lordly waters flowing, ’tis the martial trumpets blowing,
’Tis the Grenadier Guards a-going—marching to the war.
Yes—there they go, through the February morning,
To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn warning;
And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that cheer
Falls ever and anon with a faint crash on the ear;
’Mid the tears of wives and mothers, and the prayers of many others,
And the cheers of their brothers, they are marching to the war.
Cheer, boys, cheer! till you crack a thousand throats;
Cheer, boys, cheer! to the merry music’s notes;
Let the girls they leave behind them wave handkerchiefs and scarfs,
Let the hearty farewell ring through the echoing streets and wharfs;
Come—volley out your holloas—come, cheer the gallant fellows,
The gallant and good fellows, marching to the war.
Bridge of Waterloo!—let the span of each proud arch
Spring to the feet of the soldiers as they march;
For the last time they went forth, your glorious name was borne
Where the bullets rained like hail among the summer corn:
Ah! we’ll not forget too soon the great Eighteenth of June,
While the British Grenadier’s tune strikes up gaily for the war.
Bridge of Waterloo!—accept the happy omen,
For the staunchest friends are wrought out of the bravest foemen:
Guards of Waterloo!—the troops whose brunt you bore
Shall stand at your right hand upon the Danube’s shore;
And Trafalgar’s flags shall ride on the tall masts, side by side,
O’er the Black Sea and the Baltic, to sweep the waves of war.
Die, die away, o’er the bridge and up the street,
Shiver of their music, echo of their feet:
Dawn upon the darkness, chilly day and pale;
Steady rolling engine, flash along the rail;
For the good ship waits in port, with her tackle trim and taut,
And her ready funnels snort, till she bear them to the war.
Far, far away, they are bound across the billow,
Where the Russian sleeps uneasy on his last plundered pillow;
Where the Cross is stained with fraud by the giant evil-doer,
And the pale Crescent shines with a steady light and pure;
And their coats will be dim with dust, and their bayonets brown with rust,
Ere they conquer, as we trust, in the mighty game of war.
Peace, peace, peace, with the vain and silly song,
That we do no sin ourselves, if we wink at others’ wrong;
That to turn the second cheek is the lesson of the Cross,
To be proved by calculation of the profit and the loss:
Go home, you idle teachers! you miserable creatures!
The cannons are God’s preachers, when the time is ripe for war.
Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger,
Merely cheating destiny a very little longer;
War, with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes;
Is cheaper if discounted and taken up betimes:
When the weeds of wrath are rank, you must plough the poisoned bank,
Sow and reap the crop of Peace with the implements of war.
God, defend the right, and those that dare to claim it!
God, cleanse the earth from the many wrongs that shame it!
Give peace in our time, but not the peace of trembling,
Won by true strength, not cowardly dissembling;
Let us see in pride returning, as we send them forth in yearning,
Our Grenadier Guards from earning the trophies of the war.
Sir Franklin Lushington.
