The Soldier is Home

The Soldier is Home
John Shaw Neilson

Weary is he, and sick of the sorrow of war,
Hating the shriek of loud music, the beat of the drum;
Is this the shadow called glory men sell themselves for?
How shall he speak to his God, the God that is dumb?
                    Ay, ay, the soldier is home.

Still doth he think of one morning, the flood of the sun,
The whizzing of bullets: deep darkness, and next to his mind
Came the hours of his terrible torment when the red fighting was done,
And he sighed for the bonny brave leg he left in the desert behind.
                    Ay, ay, the soldier is home.

Alas for the prating of priest, the low mean manoeuvrings of kings,
The diplomat’s delicate lying, the cheers of a crowd;
But he, he has learnt for himself the heart of these horrible things,
He that was young and knew not, now almost his heart cries aloud.
                    Ay, ay, the soldier is home.

Now shall he sit in the dark -– his world shall be fearfully small
He shall sit with old people who pray, and praise God for fine weather.
Only at times shall he move for a glimpse away over the wall
Where the men and women who make up the world are striving together.
                    Ay, ay, the soldier is home.

Sometimes the sudden big tears will redden his eyes,
For no one may hear what he hears, or see what he sees.
He shall be mocked by the sunlight, and the flush of the skies.
He shall behold the kissing of sweethearts, close by him, here, under the trees.
                    Ay, ay, the soldier is home.