Robert W. Service
Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.
Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier’s billet at night and a soldier’s ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier’s passion.
For I hold as a simple faith there’s no denying:
The trade of a soldier’s the only trade worth plying;
The death of a soldier’s the only death worth dying.
So let me go and leave your safety behind me;
Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me;
Go till the word is War—and then you will find me.
Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me;
Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . .
And when it’s over, spurn me and no longer heed me.
For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry;
With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry;
You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.
You with your “Art for its own sake”, posing and prinking;
You with your “Live and be merry”, eating and drinking;
You with your “Peace at all hazard”, from bright blood shrinking.
Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters,
And a million of men go down, it’s little it matters. . . .
There’s the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.
There’s a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for;
There’s a hope that’s as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for;
There’s a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.
Ah no! it’s my dream that War will never be ended;
That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid;
That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.
That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story;
That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary,
I’ll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.
So give me a strong right arm for a wrong’s swift righting;
Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting;
Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem glorifies the life of a soldier with unyielding passion, but it does so in a way that feels almost defiant toward the world it critiques. The voice of the poem belongs to someone who sees war not as a tragedy to be avoided, but as a proving ground for honor, courage, and purpose. It’s a rallying cry wrapped in both pride and bitterness, balancing fierce individualism with a steadfast loyalty to ideals.
The opening stanzas immerse us in the soldier’s world, full of rugged imagery—howling winds, unknown trails, and towering peaks. These lines capture a craving for danger and freedom, a need to escape the comfortable, “safe” existence of those who stand apart from war. There’s a raw energy here, as if the soldier’s very being depends on this harsh and untamed life.
The poem sets up a clear divide between the soldier and the civilian world. Civilians are portrayed with disdain—soft, complacent, and bound by the trappings of wealth and comfort. Lines like “You with your ‘Art for its own sake,’ posing and prinking” aim straight at the heart of perceived pretension and cowardice. It’s a scathing dismissal of those who don’t share the soldier’s willingness to fight and die for something greater.
But the bitterness isn’t just directed outward—it’s also aimed at the soldier’s own fate. The poem acknowledges a painful truth: soldiers are needed, celebrated, and then discarded. The line “And when it’s over, spurn me and no longer heed me” hits like a gut punch, summing up the soldier’s ultimate alienation from the society they defend. This fleeting acknowledgment of their worth adds complexity to the speaker’s otherwise unflinching embrace of war.
What stands out most is the poet’s unwavering belief in the “glory gold never can buy.” The soldier’s faith in the honor of war is almost mythic, evoking ancient ideals of valor and sacrifice. Yet, this idealism coexists with a darker, more fatalistic view. The speaker claims, “It’s my dream that War will never be ended,” suggesting a grim acceptance of humanity’s violent nature. In this view, war is not just inevitable but necessary—a stage where the best qualities of courage and honor are forged.
The poem’s tone is relentless—fiery, proud, and full of conviction. Its rhythm drives forward like a battle march, fitting for the unyielding resolve of its subject. However, there’s also a deep sadness beneath the bravado. For all its celebration of valor, it recognizes the fleeting nature of a soldier’s glory and the indifference of the world they fight for.
Ultimately, this poem is both an ode to war’s nobility and a lament for its enduring place in human history. It challenges the reader to grapple with the tension between the ideals of honor and the grim realities of conflict. Whether one agrees with its perspective or not, the poem captures the soldier’s ethos with unflinching honesty, refusing to turn away from the beauty, the pain, or the contradictions of a life lived in the shadow of war.