The garrison and barrack and the fortress give them vent;
They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the flying scent;
For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atones,
And their master's harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.
Into beasts of prey he's turned them; when they show their teeth and growl.
The lash is buried in their cheeks; they're slaughtered if they howl;
To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,
For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.
Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,
Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;
They drink and burn and rape and laugh to hear the women cry,
And do the devil's work to-day, but on the morrow die.
Drift! Drift! Drift! the cannon fodder go
Upon their way to Calais, (God feed the carrion crow.)
They've done his will who taught them that the Germans shall be slaves,
Till land and sea are festering with their unnumbered graves.
EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
[Illustration: THE YSER. "We are on our way to Calais."]
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VON BETHMANN-HOLLWEG AND TRUTH
_"Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas"_
HORACE
"Good Faith unstained, and Truth all-unadorned"
_Nuda veritas_: it was Horace who in a famous Ode first presented the
figure of Truth thus.
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