Robert Graves
It doesn’t matter what’s the cause,
What wrong they say we’re righting,
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,
When we’re to do the fighting!
And since we lads are proud and true,
What else remains to do?
Lucasta, when to France your man
Returns his fourth time, hating war,
Yet laughs as calmly as he can
And flings an oath, but says no more,
That is not courage, that’s not fear—
Lucasta he’s a Fusilier,
And his pride sends him here.
Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray,
And so decide who started
This bloody war, and who’s to pay,
But he must be stout-hearted,
Must sit and stake with quiet breath,
Playing at cards with Death.
Don’t plume yourself he fights for you;
It is no courage, love, or hate,
But let us do the things we do;
It’s pride that makes the heart be great;
It is not anger, no, nor fear—
Lucasta he’s a Fusilier,
And his pride keeps him here.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem wrestles with the complex motivations of soldiers in war, rejecting simplified narratives of heroism, fear, or patriotic fervor. Instead, it centers on pride—a raw, personal force that compels the soldier to face death again and again. The speaker pulls no punches, dismissing the lofty rhetoric of statesmen and the sanitized justifications for war. It’s not treaties or causes that keep soldiers in the fight, but something deeply human and intrinsic: the stubborn pride of their own identity.
The repeated invocation of “Lucasta” adds a layer of intimacy and melancholy. Drawing on the name made famous in Richard Lovelace’s 17th-century poem *To Lucasta, Going to the Wars*, it evokes the image of a soldier addressing a loved one before going off to battle. Here, though, the tone is less romantic and more resigned. The soldier doesn’t promise glory or honor but acknowledges a grim sense of duty shaped not by ideals, but by personal pride. This transforms the war experience into something grounded and relatable, stripping it of grandeur.
The imagery of “playing at cards with Death” is striking. It captures the cold, mechanical gamble of survival in war—a game of chance where the stakes are life and death. The soldier faces this with “quiet breath,” suggesting not fearlessness, but a hardened acceptance of the game’s inevitability. It’s a subtle yet powerful way of showing the psychological toll of war without delving into melodrama.
What stands out most is the poem’s honesty about the motivations behind soldiering. It doesn’t glorify the act or vilify it. Instead, it situates pride as the driving force—a complicated mix of identity, resilience, and defiance. The refrain about the Fusilier’s pride frames the experience as one of endurance, not for a greater cause, but for the self and the comrades who share the same burden.
The poem resonates because it sidesteps clichés about bravery and sacrifice. It recognizes the absurdity of war (“Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray”) while honoring the individual humanity of those caught in its machinery. It’s a stark and poignant reminder of how pride, for better or worse, becomes a soldier’s anchor in the chaos of conflict.