Glory Of Women

You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,

Or wounded in a mentionable place.

You worship decorations; you believe

That chivalry redeems that war's disgrace.

You make us shells. You listen with Delight,

By tastes of dirt and danger fondly thrilled

You Crown our distant ardors while we fight

And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.

You can't believe that British Troops 'retire'

When hell's last horror breaks them and they run,

Trampling the Terrible corpses blind with blood.

O German mother dreaming by the fire,

While you are knitting socks to send your son

His face is trodden deeper in the mud.