The Conscript

Written 1918

                I am a peaceful working man,

                I am not wise or strong,

                But I can follow Nature's plan,

                In labour, rest, and song.

                One day the men that rule us all

                Decided we must die,

                Else pride and freedom surely fall

                In the dim bye and bye!

                They told me I must write my name

                Upon a scroll of death;

                That some day I should rise to fame

                By giving up my breath.

                I do not know what I have done

                That I should thus be bound

                To wait for tortures one by one

                And then an unmark'd mound.

                I hate no man, and yet they say

                That I must fight and kill;

                That I must suffer day by day

                To please a master's will.

                I used to have a conscience free,

                But now they bid it rest;

                They've made a number out of me,

                And I must ne'er protest.

                They tell of trenches, long and deep,

                Fill'd with the mangled slain.

                They talk till I can scarcely sleep,

                So reeling is my brain.

                They tell of filth, and blood, and woe;

                Of things beyond belief;

                Of things that make me tremble so

                With mingled fright and grief.

                I do not know what I shall do -

                Is not the law unjust?

                I can't do what they want me to,

                And yet they say I must!

                Each day my doom doth nearer bring;

                Each day the State prepares;

                Sometimes I feel a watching thing

                That stares, and stares, and stares.

                I never seem to sleep - my head

                Whirls in the queerest way.

                Why am I chosen to be dead

                Upon some fateful day?

                Yet hark - some fibre is o'erwrought

                A giddying wine I quaff -

                Things seem so odd, I can do naught

                But laugh, and laugh, and laugh!