Look, for their ragged old banners are marching Down to the end—will your knowledge escape it?— Down to the end of a few brief years! What should they care for the wisdom you bring. XII Count as they pass, their hundreds, thousands, Millions, marching away to a doom Younger than London, older that Tyre! Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching, Regiments, nations, empires, marching? Down thro' the jaws of a world-wide tomb, Doomed or ever they sprang from the mire! XIII Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road, Father and little one, lover and friend, Out in the night they are marching, marching, Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden, Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load, Love that—marched to the self-same end.
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