Rouse ye, my men, are ye sleeping or waking?
The Motherland calls you — but calls you in vain;
Hark to the sob from a proud heart that's breaking,
That still you can sleep while she writhes in her pain.
Thickly and darkly close foemen around her,
With hate in their hearts, and with swords gleaming high;
Will you lie low till they've captured and bound her,
The sons that she — then leave her to die?
See tears of blood from her brave eyes are falling
For heroes sore wounded, and slain for her sake;
Hear them — your brothers — so pleadingly calling
"Come quickly and help us, for Britain's dear sake."
Foemen are foemen, but these are inhuman,
Soulless, sans honour, deceitful and base;
Help, or avenge us, if so ye are true men,
Ne'er let their foul fingers smirch Britain's fair face.
How, if you're men, all unmoved can you listen
The prayers of the living, the dead's dying plea?
Round and about you the bayonets glisten,
And bugles are calling the fearless and free.
Leap to the call, as your sires did before you,
Quit you like men, sweep the dark cloud of shame
Off from your brow, and may heaven restore you!
The spirit that made Britain's glorious name!
Jeanie Donnan (1864 - 1942). Scotland
Source: One hundred of the best poems on the European War, by Charles F. Forshaw,
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