Harness the bay and saddle the grey,
Tighten the straps an’ girth;
The dawn is cold, the ground’s like stone —
That’s the glory you’re owed on earth.
There’s no grand song for a shovel or spade,
No crown for the dung-cart crew;
Just the smoke that stings, and the cook’s rough bread,
And the work that falls to you.
March, my lad, till your soles wear thin,
Through mire and sleet and rain;
The road runs long when your belly’s gone
And the rations taste of pain.
To praise what duty buys;
Just breath and bone, and a grunt, and a curse,
And the look in a comrade’s eyes.
On! said the knight with his gilded spur,
On through the smoke and din;
You’ll shoulder pike while the banners shine,
And pray for a scrap to win.
There’s no gold glow in a clashing line,
No glory in steel or gore;
Just men who hope they’ll see the fields
They left a year before.
But should you come to the hearth once more,
And find your kindred hale,
You’ll bear the scars like a pilgrim’s beads,
And smile at an old man’s tale.
There’s no bold fame in the soldier’s tread,
Nor laurels that never fade;
The glory, lad, is the roof o’erhead,
And the peace your labour made.
© 2026 by C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.
[The Suno AI has composed and performed a tune for this song:]
No comments:
Post a Comment