Читать книгу Songs of the Army of the Night - Francis William Lauderdale Adams - Страница 10

DRILL.

When day’s hard task’s done,

Eve’s scant meal partaken,

Out we steal each one,

Weariless, unshaken.

In small reeking squares,

Garbaged plots, we gather,

Little knots and pairs,

Brother, sister, father.

Then the word is given.

In their silent places

Under lowering heaven,

Range our stern-set faces.

Now we march and wheel

In our clumsy line,

Shouldering sticks for steel,

Thoughts like bitter brine!

Drill, drill, drill, and drill!

It is only thus

Conquer yet we will

Those who’ve conquered us.

Patience, sisters, mothers!

We must not forget

Dear dead fathers, brothers;

They must teach us yet.

In that hour we see,

The hour of our desire,

What shall their slayers be?

As the stubble to the fire!