Western Camps
THREE men stood with their glasses lifted,
Night was around them and flaring lamps:
‘Here’s to the tried and true and sifted;
Here’s to the flotsam tossed and drifted;
Here’s to the men in the Outcast-camps,
‘Stars that fall are their lot for ever;
Lights that perish and stars that fall;
Fighting Fate with a brave heart ever—
Drifting leaves on a wayward river—
Men for ever in spite of all.
’Here’s to the gallant souls defeated;
Here’s to the strong souls under-trod,
Hope-abandoned and mirage-cheated—
And yet, by right of their failure, seated
Somewhere close to the feet of God.
‘Here’s to the heart that braves undaunted
Toil and trouble for home and wife;
Here’s to the spirit mocked and taunted;
Here’s to the memory, sorrow-haunted;
Here’s to the soul grown sick of life.
‘Drink to the man at the camp-fire sitting;
Drink to his mistress of long ago;
Well—’twere well—and the time were fitting,
If, in the shades of the firelight flitting,
She should come with her eyes aglow.
‘Drink to the purpose, iron, oaken,
Brought to nought by a wanton’s guile;
Drink to men with an old love-token
Somewhere close to their brave hearts broken;
Drink to the martyred souls that smile.
‘Drink to courage and all fine daring—
Spirit trampling the flesh beneath;
Drink to the reckless heart uncaring;
Drink to mates at the last pinch sharing
Their little all in the face of death.
’Last toast this . . . may their hearts discover,
On every track that the outcast tramps,
A friend in need, and at need a lover,
Green grass around them and kind stars over,
And dreams of peace in their Western Camps.’
