On the Way to Calais
They are coming, like a tempest, in their endless ranks of grey,
While the world throws up a cloud of dust upon their awful way;
They’re the glorious cannon fodder of the mighty Fatherland,
Born to make the kingdoms tremble and the nations understand.
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! the cannon fodder come
Along their way to Calais; (God help the hearth and home.)
They’ll do his will who taught them, on the earth and on the waves,
Till land and sea are festering with their unnumbered graves.
The garrison and barrack and the fortress give them vent;
They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the flying scent;
For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atones,
And their master’s harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.
Into beasts of prey he’s turned them; when they show their teeth and growl
The lash is buried in their cheeks; they’re slaughtered if they howl;
To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,
For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.
Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,
Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;
They drink and burn and rape and laugh to hear the women cry,
And do the devil’s work to-day, but on the morrow die.
Drift! Drift! Drift! the cannon fodder go
Upon their way to Calais, (God feed the carrion crow.)
They’ve done his will who taught them that the Germans shall be slaves,
Till land and sea are festering with their unnumbered graves.
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
THE YSER
“We are on our way to Calais.”