Classic Poem

Thank God I have in my laggard blood
The vim of the Englishman,
Which is second to none, from North to South,
Save the fire of the Scottish clan —
Save the blood of the lads who died
On the rocky mountain-side,
And went to the hell of the heated guns
As a lover goes to his bride.

The Ghoorkas laughed at the whining balls —
And they were of alien race.
The English drave at the smoking rocks
And their subalterns set the pace.
Oh the blood of the lads who fell
Where the valley lay a hell;
Thank God that the men in the East and West
Cheer at the tale they tell.

The Ghoorkas lay in the slaughter place,
Save a few that had battled through —
Their brown, brave faces raised to the steep
Where the flags of the marksmen flew —
Their great souls cheering still
(Souls that no ball could kill)
Into the ears of the few, who crouched
Under the crooked hill.

The English went as maids to a dance
Or hounds to the huntsman's call,
And the English lay in the valley-lap
And smeared their blood on the wall.
Oh the blood that knows no shame,
And the valour clear of blame —
Thank God that the world is girt about
With the gold of an English name.

Then the men of the Gordon Highlanders
With their bagpipes shrilling free —
The lads of the heather pasture-sides,
The lads of the unclad knee,
Charged — where their friends lay dead —
Over the green and the red
To the cry of the regimental pipes
And the flop of the hitting lead.

They passed the level of sprawling shapes
And the valley of reeking death;
They struck the rocks of the mountain pass
Where the smoke blew up like breath.
Little they thought of fame
Or the lifting of a name;
They only thought of the mountain crest
And the circle of spitting flame.

Thank God I find in my laggard blood,
Deep down, the fire of the man,
And the heart that shakes with a mad delight
At the name of a Highland clan —
At the name of the lads who died
On the rocky mountain-side
And went to the hell of the heated guns
As a lover goes to his bride.