England Marching

Winter — it's winter, Little Greatest Country,
Black clouds keep piling on a bitter sky
And the winds are screaming up from the cruel northline.
Cold winds — cold hearts — winter is nigh.

Other Peoples, great ones, Little Greatest Country,
Marking all the storm-signs and the tyrants waxing strong,
Take fear to council and sound for a retiring.
Sink on their knees and whimper "Lord, how long?"

You have never halted. Little Greatest Country,
Though the foe ran ravening and all heav'n was gray,
Though cowards noisily twittered of disaster.
Leaders hung back that should have shown the way.

On through the Darkness, Little Greatest Country,
You have kept marching the men that you bore —
Seemed their drums muffled, their trumpets were they silent? —
Ah, but the foot-beats — Hear their ceaseless roar!

Little Greatest Country, never yet went army
Poor and so valiant, crushed and so free,
Through deadlier night, disdaining the false captains,
Marching — marching — to Spring and Victory

December, 1914