The Little Army

It's true that hordes of British ne'er by tyrants' wills were hurled.
Thicker than any locust swarm, to devastate the world;
But when those tyrants' legions passed, or painfully withdrew,
One little Army still marched — it did at Waterloo

No British Attila is found upon our scroll of fame —
A thing few Englishmen regret — we never liked the name —
But where, in some Walhalla hall, the great dead Captains meet,
It's odds if Wellington stands down or Marlborough lacks a seat.

Why would they? Small their armies were maybe, but none would call
The battles they fought little ones, the victories they won small.
Seeing that, ere they left the field, whate'er their toll might be,
Kings had gone down and Emperors given up their empery.

Nay, take a map and count the spots where this small force made shift —
Blenheim, the Douro, Quatre Bras, Alma, Quebec, Rorke's Drift;
Mark that long road they trudged, adown the endless Afghan nights.
See where, at a sick hero's word, they climbed the Abraham's Heights.

Let others count their men by hordes! We count them one by one —
And many a warrior doffed his shoes before John Nicholson;
And many a slave bowed down his head and wept to know his doom —
When Gordon stood and faced the pack that roared into Khartoum . . .

Oh War-lord of the Western Huns — that Army of Sir John's —
Your legions know it, do they not? They drove it back from Mons —
'Twas small enough . . . too small perhaps . . . the British line is thin . . .
It won't seem quite so little when it's marching through Berlin.

1915.