INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR.

They shall tell of the Arms resplendent —

The men who dared the air;

They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns

Where the far horizons flare:

They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs —

Each rear and flanking drive —

And the song of the Service of Supply,

That kept them all alive.

And when they seem to have finished,

And ye think that the chant is done,

They will tell the tale of the tramping men

In the sweat of a torrid sun.

They will tell the tale of the marching men

Who plod the live-long night,

To reach the crest at the break o’ dawn

When the Nations go to fight.

They will tell the tale of the tired men

Beneath a straining load;

Mile by mile with lunging step

And glassy stare on the road.

They will tell the tale of the front-line trench,

And the one cold meal at night,

And the terrible song of the bursting shells,

And the flares’ uncanny light.

They will tell the tale of the moving ranks

When the zero hour lifts,

And the khaki lines leap forward

In the face of the steel-shod drifts.

Where the great shots split asunder,

And clutter hill and plain

With the weary bodies of the men

Who may not march again.

And so for a wide World's wonder,

And the ages yet to be,

They will sing in deathless numbers

The song of the Infantry.

They will slowly close the volume —

The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover,

Whose letters are flaming gold.