While The Billy BoilsSearchMy army, O, my army! The time I dreamed of comes!I want to see your colours; I want to hear your drums!I heard them in my boyhood when all men’s hearts seemed cold;I heard them as a Young Man—and I am growing old!My army, O, my army! The signs are manifold!
My army, O, my army! My army and my Queen!I used to sing your battle-songs when I was seventeen!They came to me from ages, they came from far and near;They came to me from Paris, they came to me from Here!—They came when I was marching with the Army of the Rear.
My Queen’s dark eyes were flashing (oh, she was younger then!);My Queen’s Red Cap was redder than the reddest blood of men!My Queen marched like an Amazon, with anger manifest—Her dark hair darkly matted from a knifegash in her breast(For blood will flow where milk will not—her sisters knew the rest).
My legions ne’er were listed, they had no need to be;My army ne’er was trained in arms—’twas trained in misery!It took long years to mould it, but war could never drownThe shuffling of my army’s feet in the hunger-haunted town—A little child was murdered, and so Tyranny went down.
My army kept no order, my army kept no time;My army dug no trenches, yet died in dust and slime;Its troops were fiercely ignorant, as to the manner born;Its clothes were rags and tatters, or patches worn and torn—Ah, me! It wore a uniform that I have often worn!
The faces of my army were ghastly as the dead;My army’s cause was Hunger, my army’s cry was “Bread!”It called on God and Mary and Christ of Nazareth;It cried to kings and courtesans that fainted at its breath—Its women beat their poor, flat breasts where babes had starved to death.
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My army! My army—I hear the sound of drumsAbove the roar of battles—and, lo! my army comes!Nor creed of man may stay it—nor war, nor nation’s law—The pikes go through the firing-lines as pitchforks go through straw—Like pitchforks through the litter, while empires stand in awe.