A. P. Herbert Poems

Four years! And still you do not shirk
The weary round of watch and work.
Four years! And still from bank or bench
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I seldom hear a thoughtful Briton speak
But he will start complaining of the State:
'The State is brutal, and the State is weak',
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Hold back, sub-editor! You march and plan
So much more swiftly than the soldiers can.
They take a trench or two, a few-score scalps,
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Soldier, are you afraid of the things to come?
Do you dream of the dawn-and the cold sea's heave—
And the guns' blaze and the bullets' hum—
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Thank you, soldiers of the street,
Never budging, never beat,
You who steer, so fierce and fast,
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Nobody's wrong but England—and England's always wrong,
Too late—or else too early—too soft—or else too strong.
And when for once the wide world begins to praise her name
Her own sons crowd and hurry to shout her back to shame.
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Greatest of Davids, on St. David's Day,
We all are Jonathans, and look your way.
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You yell at everything; you yell and yell:
You would be horrified if all went well.
You yelled at Papandreou, worthy man,
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If we're not judges of the Huns
Why do we shoot at them with guns?
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{In Memoriam—Malcolm McEachern)
If there are songs in Heaven, as they say,
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