Close Up

You heard the bugles calling, comrades, brothers,-- "Close up! Close up!" You mounted to go forth, You answered "We are coming," and you gathered, And paraded with your Captains in the North.

From here you came, from there you came, your voices All flashing with your joy as flash the stars, You waited, watched, until, the last one riding Out of the night, came roll-call after wars.

Unsling your swords, off with your knapsacks, brothers! We'll mess here at headquarters once again; Drink and forget the scars; drink and remember The joy of fighting and the pride of pain.

We will forget: the great game rustles by us, The furtive world may whistle at the door, We'll not go forth; we'll furlough here together-- Close up! Close up! 'Tis comrades evermore!

And Captains, our dear Captains, standing steady, Aged with battle, but ever young with love, Tramping the zones round, high have we hung your virtues, Like shields along the wall of life, like armaments above:

Like shields your love, our Captains, like armaments your virtues, No rebel lives among us, we are yours; The old command still holds us, the old flag is our one flag, We answer to a watchword that endures!

Close up, close up, my brothers! Lift your glasses, Drink to our Captains, pledging ere we roam, Far from the good land, the dear familiar faces, The love of the old regiment at home!

W. E. H.

"Henley is dead!" Ah, but the sound and the sight of him, Buoyant, commanding, and strong, suffering, noble in mind! Gone, and no more shall we have any discourse or delight of him, Wearing his pain like a song, casting his troubles behind.

Gallant and fair! Feeling the soul and the ruth of things, Probing the wounds of the world, healing he brought and surcease-- Laughter he gave, beauty to teach us the truth of things, Music to march to the fight, ballads for hours of peace.

Now it is done! Fearless the soul of him strove for us, Viking in blood and in soul, baring his face to the rain, Facing the storm he fared on, singing for England and love of us, On to the last corral where now he lies beaten and slain.

Beaten and slain! Yes, but England hath heed of him, Singer of high degree, master of thought and of word-- She shall bear witness with tears, of the pride and the loss and the need of him; We shall measure the years by the voice and the song unheard.