The Green Brigade

A poem by Michael Earls

ON THE FIELD OF CORN



Where is the war ye march unto,
From the early tents of morn?
And what are the deeds ye hope to do,
Brave Grenadiers of Corn?
Pearls of the dew are on your hair,
And the jewels of morning light,
Pennants of green ye fling to the air,
And the tall plumes waving bright.

Gaily away and steady ye go,
Never a faltering line:
Forward! I follow and try to know
Word of your countersign:
Hist! The spies of the tyrant sun
Eagerly watch your plan,
Lavish with bribes of gold, they run
Down to your outmost man.

Steady, good lads, go bravely on
By the parching hills of pain,
An armor of shade ye soon may don
And meet the allies of rain:
And night in the bivouac hours will sing
Praise of the march ye made,
And into your pockets good gold will bring,
Men of the Green Brigade.

Yea, and upon September's field,
When the long campaign is done,
With arms up-stacked, your hearts will yield
Conquest of rain and sun:
The pennants and plumes will then be sere,
Your pearls delight no morn,
But tents of plenty will bless the year,
Brave Grenadiers of Corn.

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