p. 8 | THE WHITE MAN'S WAR by C. M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 1, 1899

THE WHITE MAN'S WAR.

By C. M. Snow

HARK to the clank of the saber and lance, And list to the thunderous tread Of the hurrying hoofs where the chargers prance Over the dusky dead, Down in the desert's darksome lands, Or down where the sea-winds blow, The white man stands with crimson hands Over his fallen foe.

List to the scream of the shrapnel shell, And the song of the Maxim gun, As rank on rank the dark men fell, The white man one by one. Look on the scene as the sun goes down, And count them, ye who can— The ones who scoffed at the white man's frown And fell in the battle's van.

Sullen and silent and low they lie, And pierced and shattered and bare; But the breath of the hurt one's moaning cry Is rising everywhere. Stern is the face of the detailed squad, Lantern and spade in hand, As they hurry to hide from the world and God Their work in the dark man's land.

Dig for them deeply, tumble them in, Bruised and bloody and bare; For this is the burden of those who win As you are winning there. Then Mother Earth will bathe the wound Your surgeons can not reach, And gather to her sodden ground The sorrowing hearts of each.

Such is their fate, and such of yore The folly of their stand, When white men try the white man's war Down in the dark man's land. But judge ye not, O men who seek The cannon-studded field; That earth holds only foes so weak As those ye've taught to yield!

Over the nations and to and fro There spread the clouds of hate, And their armies grow with the hate they show, And the hour of the strife is late. Their forts are stored with shot and shell, Their ships are riding low With their weight of mail, and loaded well To meet an equal foe.

Earth is agroan with burdens now To fill the tented field With men of war and teach them how Her deadliest arms to wield; And what the white man there has done The white man yet will do When earth's great battle is begun And whites are facing you.

Sound if ye will, but must you know That when the blast is blown, 'Tis not the arm that bends a bow That's matched against your own. The serried ranks of other lands Will hasten to the fray; And, win or lose, more skilful hands Will battle in that day.

Think of it not as vacant dream, This conflict yet to be, When Armageddon is agleam With tramping soldiery. No holy form will go before To stay the slaughtering hand When white men try the white man's war Up in the white man's land.

C. M. SNOW.