Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and glass; An easygoing blighter, Who lived in Montparnasse. But 'mid the tavern tattle He heard some guinney say: "When France goes forth to battle, The Legion leads the way. @3"The scourings of creation, Of every sin and station, The men who've known damnation, Are picked to lead the way."@1 Well, Kelly joined the Legion; They marched him day and night; They rushed him to the region Where largest loomed the fight. "Behold your mighty mission, Your destiny," said they; "By glorious tradition The Legion leads the way. @3"With tattered banners flying With trail of dead and dying, On! On! All hell defying, The Legion sweeps the way."@1 With grim, hard-bitten faces, With jests of savage mirth, They swept into their places, The men of iron worth; Their blooded steel was flashing; They swung to face the fray; Then rushing, roaring, crashing, The legion cleared the way. @3The trail they blazed was gory; Few lived to tell the story; Through death they plunged to glory; But, oh, they cleared the way!@1 Now Kelly lay a-dying, And dimly saw advance, With split new banners flying, The @3fantassins@1 of France. Then up amid the @3melee@1 He rose from where he lay; "Come on, me boys," says Kelly, "The Layjun lades the way!" @3Aye, while they faltered, doubting (Such flames of doom were spouting), He caught them, thrilled them, shouting: "The Layjun lades the way!"@1 They saw him slip and stumble, Then stagger on once more; They marked him trip and tumble, A mass of grime and gore; They watched him blindly crawling Amid hell's own affray, And calling, calling, calling: "The Layjun lades the way!" @3And even while they wondered, The battle-wrack was sundered; To Victory they thundered, But . . . Kelly led the way.@1 Still Kelly kept agoing; Berserker-like he ran; His eyes with fury glowing, A lion of a man; His rifle madly swinging, His soul athirst to slay, His slogan ringing, ringing, "The Layjun lades the way!" @3Till in a pit death-baited, Where Huns with Maxims waited, He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated, To death he stabbed his way.@1 Now Kelly was a fellow Who simply loathed a fight: He loved a tavern mellow, Grog hot and pipe alight; I'm sure the Show appalled him, And yet without dismay, When Death and Duty called him, He up and led the way. @3So in Valballa drinking (If heroes meek and shrinking Are suffered there), I'm thinking 'Tis Kelly leads the way.@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE ROAD TO CHORRERA by ARLO BATES THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH: A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE by EDWARD LEAR THE LOVER TO THE THAMES OF LONDON TO FAVOUR HIS LADY ... by GEORGE TURBERVILLE COMRADES by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY SONNET: THE LORELEI by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |