THE Kings are dying! In blood and flame
Their sun is setting to rise no more!
They have played too long at the ancient game
Of their bluer blood and the bolted door.
Now the blood of their betters is on their hands—
The blood of the peasant, the child, the maid;
And there are no waters in all the lands
Can bathe them clean of the dark stain laid.
They have sinned in malice and craven fear—
For the sake of their tinsel have led us on
To the hate-built trench and the death-drop sheer,
But the day will come when the Kings are gone.
The Kings are dying! Beat, O drums,
The world-wide roll of the democrat!
O bugles, cry out for the day that comes
When the Kings that were shall be marveled at!
JEAN DESPREZ
ROBERT W. SERVICE
From “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” by Robert W. Service, published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
OH ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance,
Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;
A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
Could feel within his soul upleap and soar, the sacred flame;
Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.
With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,
And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;
Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin’s black abyss;
The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.
“Rout out of the village, one and all!” the Uhlan Captain said.
“Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.
Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay.”