Produced by Al Haines. [Illustration: Cover] A SONG OF THE GUNS BY GILBERT FRANKAU, R.S.A. BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1916 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY GILBERT FRANKAU ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published April 1916_ NOTE _A Song of the Guns_ was written under what are probably the most remarkable conditions in which a poem has ever been composed. The author, who is now serving in Flanders, was present at the battle of Loos, and during a lull in the fighting--when the gunners, who had been sleepless for five nights, were resting like tired dogs under their guns--he jotted down the main theme of the poem. After the battle the artillery brigade to which he was attached was ordered to Ypres, and it was during the long trench warfare in this district, within sight of the ruined tower of Ypres Cathedral, that the poem was finally completed. The last three stanzas were written at midnight in Brigade Headquarters with the German shells screaming over into the ruined town. CONTENTS The Voice of the Slaves Headquarters Gun-Teams Eyes in the Air Signals The Observers Ammunition Column The Voice of the Guns A SONG OF THE GUNS These are our masters, the slim Grim muzzles that irk in the pit; That chafe for the rushing of wheels, For the teams plunging madly to bit As the gunners wing down to unkey, For the trails sweeping half-circle-right, For the six breech-blocks clashing as one To a target viewed clear on the sight-- Gray masses the shells search and tear Into fragments that bunch as they run-- For the hour of the red battle-harvest, The dream of the slaves of the gun! We have bartered our souls to the guns; Every fibre of body and brain Have we trained to them, chained to them. Serfs? Aye! but proud of the weight of our chain, Of our backs that are bowed to their workings, To hide them and guard and disguise, Of our ears that are deafened with service, Of hands that are scarred, and of eyes Grown hawklike with marking their prey, Of wings that are slashed as with swords When we hover, the turn of a blade From the death that is sweet to our lords. THE VOICE OF THE SLAVES _By the ears and the eyes and the brain,_ _By the limbs and the hands and the wings,_ _We are slaves to our masters the guns;_ _But their slaves are the masters of kings!_ HEADQUARTERS