They shall not pass, While Britain’s sons draw breath, While strength is theirs to strike with shining sword. They shall not pass, Except they pass to Death-- For British fighting men have pledged their word.
They shall not pass-- For France knows no defeat, Nor hesitates to nobly pay the price. They shall not pass Till brave hearts cease to beat, And none shall stand to fall in sacrifice.
They shall not pass-- America will stand As long as lips can answer her, “I come.” They shall not pass, To strike the lovéd land, That freedom’s children rise to call their home.
“Not a light visible. Not a man above the deck.”--From a correspondent’s description.
Hail and farewell, Ships that pass to the sea! Hail and a long farewell, Soldiers of destiny!
Not with rolling of drums, Not with music and songs, Not with laughter and weeping, Or cheering of passionate throngs;
But silently, as is fitting, Gray ghosts passing from sight; Great ships like sea-gulls flitting Against the curtain of night.
Who was it, picked from civil life And plunged in deadly, frenzied strife Against a devil’s dreadful might? Just plain “John Doe--Buck Private.”
Who jumped the counter for the trench, And left fair shores for all the stench And mud, and death, and bloody drench? Your simple, plain “Buck Private.”
Who, when his nerves were on the hop, With courage scaled the bloody top? Who was it made the Fritzies stop? “J. Doe (no stripes), Buck Private.”
Who, underneath his training tan Is, every single inch, a man! And, best of all, American? “John Doe, just plain Buck Private.”
Who saw his job and did it well? Who smiles so bland--yet fights like hell? Who rang again old Freedom’s bell? ’Twas only “Doe--Buck Private.”
Who was it lunged, and struck, and tore His bayonet deep in flesh and gore? Who was it helped to win the war? “John Doe (no brains), Buck Private.”
Who, heeding not the laurel pile That scheming other men beguile, Stands modestly aside the while? “John Doe (God’s kind), Buck Private.”
The Boston Transcript reprinted the following poem in 1917, just as it appeared in that paper November 27, 1861.
Click, click! how the needles go Through the busy fingers, to and fro-- With no bright colors of berlin wool, Delicate hands today are full: Only a yarn of deep, dull blue, Socks for the feet of the brave and true. Yet click, click, how the needles go, ’Tis a power within that nerves them so. In the sunny hours of the bright spring day, And still in the night time far away. Maiden, mother, grandame sit Earnest and thoughtful while they knit. Many the silent prayers they pray, Many the tear drops brushed away. While busy on the needles go, Widen and narrow, heel and toe. The grandame thinks with a thrill of pride How her mother knit and spun beside For that patriot band in olden days Who died the Stars and Stripes to raise-- Now she in turn knits for the brave Who’d die that glorious flag to save. She is glad, she says, “the boys” have gone, ’Tis just as their grandfathers would have done. But she heaves a sigh and the tears will start, For “the boys” were the pride of grandame’s heart. The mother’s look is calm and high, God only hears her soul’s deep cry-- In Freedom’s name, at Freedom’s call, She gave her sons--in them her all. The maiden’s cheek wears a paler shade, But the light in her eyes is undismayed. Faith and hope give strength to her sight, She sees a red dawn after the night. Oh, soldiers brave, will it brighten the day, And shorten the march on the weary way, To know that at home the loving and true Are knitting and hoping and praying for you? Soft are the voices when speaking your name, Proud are their glories when hearing your fame. And the gladdest hour in their lives will be When they greet you after the victory.