|
The
things that make a soldier great
and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth
nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch,
the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too,
the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where his children play,
the roses on the
wall:
'Tis these that make a soldier great.
He's fighting for them all.
'Tis not the
pomp and pride of kings
that make a soldier brave;
'Tis not allegiance to the flag
that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well
on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see
the little place called
home.
Endanger but that humble street
whereon his
children run,
You make a soldier of the man
who
never bore a gun.
What is it through the battle
smoke
the valiant solider sees?
The little garden
far away,
the budding apple trees,
The little
patch of ground back there,
the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind
the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage
isn't linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where'er it be --
the humblest spot called
home.
And now the lilacs
bud again
and all is lovely there
And homesick
soldiers far away
know spring is in the air;
The
tulips come to bloom again,
the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot
where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him,
he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now --
he's fighting for them
all.
|
