Lines
It is not sweet to die for one’s countree:
I saw a dead man stinking in a trench
Where even flies would sicken with the stench;
Ah! is it sweet to die for one’s countree?
His face had rotted black as ebony,
His eyes were empty, but his teeth were in
And horridly they made his face to grin ;
It is not sweet to die for one’s countree.
Yet if—if I the living soul could see
That sings glad triumph songs unearthily,
Then might I make a sweeter song and say,
‘ Surely ’tis sweet to die for one’s countree!’
