Some day you may ask why she bore you at all;
For the trenches are foul with the blood and the wallow,
And the bayonet is sharp for your fall.
Rest, rosy limbs, and blue eyes and gold lashes—
Made in the mold of the Saviour, they say!
Drink deep of my bosom, my starved, meagre bosom,
That—keeps you alive for the fray.
Sleep, oh, my man child, and smile in your sleeping,
But the gun has been fashioned to lay in your hand,
And your life blood flows smooth in your fair little body