Sad Alas! found wanting for a caring God,
in trenches there, cold, wet and drear
amid the mud drenched waring sod,
the slopes of death, hovered unknown to care,

Impotent artillery extinguished breath of many
amid the alarms of man mad wanton battle,
whose measured worth, but a copper penny,
'twas just but numbers, like slaughtered cattle,

cursive be, proud inventors of this sullen war,
whence, indiscriminate carnage tore limb from limb,
as comatose he stood amid the thunderous roar,
no longer could he let the rifle speak for him,

transfixed, stood with expressions vacant stare,
for one moment brief, the war had flown,
yet alone, like an unloved empty chair,
the flower of Spring ne'er again to own,

gone the turmoil 'twixt nations heart,
vanished the canvas strokes of waring art,
lost, the sweet rhetoric of its name,
of the 'Gentleman's war and its game,

one moment brief, just there and then
no war, nor artilleries fire of hell,
drank deep the vision of his own Eden,
yet a differing death, toll'd the waiting bell,

sweet homeland shires in vision seemed,
like days of yore he used to know,
where orchard blossoms softly gleamed,
like, flurries of Winter's first whiten'd snow,

there beside the beloved cottage door,
sweet-scented honeysuckle profusely hung,
yet by dawn, alas! he'll see, nor feel no more,
doom'd by unjust military law, to die so young,

charged, that from the battle did unjustly shrink,
cowardice charged, exampled as a sacrificial pawn,
a poisoned chalice, so unaware did drink,
defenceless, blindfold, alone, coldly shot at dawn,

shall we, with stoic heart e'er brave
make obsolete his flowerless unsung grave,
remembering the flower of youth so gave
of tender years, an underaged unknown English knave.