He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar
And give direction.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite.
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled,
Sonnet XXV. "Fight" is "worth" in original.
| seealso = (See also Kipling)
| topic = Soldiers
| page = 729
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 3
| text = A soldier is an anachronism of which we must get rid.
| author = Bernard Shaw
| work = Devil's Disciple.
| place = Act III.
| topic = Soldiers
| page = 729
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 4
| text = <poem>When the military man approaches, the world
locks up its spoons and packs off its womankind.
Prostrate on earth the bleeding warrior lies,
And Isr'el's beauty on the mountains dies.
How are the mighty fallen!
Hush'd be my sorrow, gently fall my tears,
Lest my sad tale should reach the alien's ears:
Bid Fame be dumb, and tremble to proclaim
In heathen Gath, or Ascalon, our shame
Lest proud Philistia, lest our haughty foe,
With impious scorn insult our solemn woe.
Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.
Bayard Taylor—The Song of the Camp.
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common sense.
| author = Tennyson
| work = Ode on the Death of the Duke of
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
And never lost an English gun.
| author = Tennyson
| work = Ode on the Death of the Duke of
Wellington.
Home they brought her warrior dead.
| author = Tennyson
| work = The Princess. Song at end of
Canto V.
Home they brought him slain with spears,
They brought him home at even-fall.
Tennyson. Version of the song in The Princess. Canto V, as published in the Selections. (1865) T. J. Wise—Bibliography
of Tennyson. Only reprinted in the Miniature Edition. (1870) Vol. III. P. 147.
Dans ce pays-ci il est bon de tuer de temps
en temps un admiral pour encourager les autres.
In this country it is found necessary now
and then to put an admiral to death in order
to encourage the others.
Voltaire—Candide. Ch. XXIII.
Old soldiers never die;
They fade away!
War Song, popular in England. (1919)
Under the tricolor, long khaki files of them
Through the Etoile, down the Champs Elysees
Marched, while grisettes blew their kisses to
miles of them,
And only the old brushed the tear stains
away—
Out where the crows spread their ominous pinions
Shadowing France from Nancy to Fay,
Singing they marched 'gainst the Kaiser's gray
minions,
Singing the song of boyhood at play.
Charles Law Watkins—The Boys who
never grew up. To the Foreign Legion.
Written on the Somme, Dec, 1916.
The more we work, the more we may,
It makes no difference to ou»' pay.
We are the Royal Sappers. War Song, popular
in England. (1915)
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Soldiers
| page = 729
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Our youth has stormed the hosts of hell and won;
Yet we who pay the price of their oblation
Know that the greater war is just begun
Which makes humanity the nations' Nation.
Willard Wattles—The War at Home.
Where are the boys of the old Brigade,
Who fought with us side by side?
F. E. Weatherley—The Old Brigade.
Oh, a strange hand writes for our dear son—O,
stricken mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—
she catches the main words only;
Sentences broken—gun-shot wound in the breast,
cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital;
At present low, but will soon be better.
Walt Whitman—Drum-Taps. Come up from
the Fields, Father.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.
Chas. Wolfe—The Burial of Sir John Moore
at Carunna. St. 1.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Chas. Wolfe—The Burial of Sir John Moore
at Carunna. St. 3.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Young—Love of Fame. Satire IV.
Some for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour saved.
SOLITUDE
Converse with men makes sharp the glittering wit,
But God to man doth speak in solitude.
