War, the Liberator, and Other Pieces/From Home. Cambridge

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HERE there is peace and easy living,
And a warm fire when the rain is driving,
There is no sound of strong men striving,
Here where the quiet waters flow,
But I am hearing the bullets ringing,
Hearing the great shells onward winging,
The dead men’s voices are singing, singing,
  And I must rise and go.

Here there is ease and comfort for me,
A warm soft bed and a good roof o’er me—
Here may be there is fame before me,
Honour and fame for all I know,
But I am seeing the thick rain falling,
Seeing the tired patrols out crawling,
The dead men’s voices are calling, calling,
  And I must rise and go.

Back to the trench that I see so clearly,
Back to the fight I can see so nearly,
Back to the friends that I love so dearly,
The dead men lying amid the dew,
The droning sound of the great shells flying,
Filth and honour, and pain, and dying—
Dead friends of mine, oh, cease your crying,
  For I come back to you.