ii

How many a woman's eyes are worn, Weeping a murder'd son! How many wish none they had borne To do as theirs have done! Who dares to see a mask of hate And snarling on the face Which she had pray'd to consecrate To honour for a space?

This high-flusht lad whom she has known Since as a new-born child He lay as soft as thistle-down, Or like an angel smil'd; Whom she has seen, a sturdy imp Tumble bare-breecht at play, Or nurst to health when, quiet and limp, Short-breath'd and flusht he lay;

Or shockhead boy, aburst with joy, Or gawky, ill-at-ease, All hot and coy, a hobbledehoy With laces round his knees— But hers, her own, with eyes that trust Hers for his better part— Ah, tiger-lust of War that thrust A hand to snatch that heart!

She hides her woe, and helps him go, She sits at home to pray; He tells her when he met the foe, But nothing of the way. She never knows the way, and who Would know it if she could, What in his fever-heat he do Of rage and dust and blood?

The lads go by, the colours fly, Drums rattle, bugles bray; We only cry, Let mine not die— No thought for whom he slay. But woman bares a martyr breast, And herself points the flame: Her son, a hero or a beast, Will never be the same.