Our Boys

Away in France and Flanders,
   'Neath, the rays of a scorching sun,
Our boys are bravely fighting.
   To quell the ruthless Hun.

There where the guns' loud thunder
   Rends the air with a booming sound;
Fighting, wounded, or dying.
   Faithful our lads are found.

Here is the cuckoo calling,
   While the swallow skims 'neath the blue,
And thrushes blithely carol.
   And bees sip honey dew.

For God has given us spring time,
   With its singing of birds so sweet;
And fragrant, sun-kissed flowers --
   A Paradise complete.

But still to France and Flanders,
   Or wherever the boys may be;
Our thoughts are ever turning,
   Yearning our loved to see.

Weary at times with waiting,
   We heed not the thrushes' song.
For life has so much anguish.
   And waiting days seem long.

O, here the cuckoo's calling;
   But there is the cry of pain;
And hearts fn love are yearning
   To soothe, but all in vain.

O, Father, be Thou with them!
   Guide them, guard them night and day;
Thy loving arms still round them,
   Their succour and their stay.

And speed the day, O Father,
   When this cruel war shall cease;
And nations dwell for ever
   Beneath the bow of peace.

MARGARET S. NORRIS.

Poem from The Witness, 14th June 1918
Image: On the Wire by Harvey Thomas Dunn (oil on canvas 1918)