Poem - Dorothy McCrae

The Call

By Dorothy McCrae

We are too safe, oh, God!

Too safe, we here.

We need the chastening rod

To wake our fear.

A sudden cannon roar,

To shake our shore.

For we forgot too soon

How children bleed,

And women shriek and swoon

In awful need;

How husband, child, and wife

Are wrenched apart in strife.

We send, 'tis true, some men,

Our flower, our best;

But where one goes why ten

Might march abreast;

For some fond mothers say

The foe's too far away.

England is full of men,

Then let them go.

Why send our darlings when

We see no foe?

Our sons are safe at home.

We will not let them roam.

And so (while women swoon

And children bleed,

'And homes lie waste), they croon

Their selfish creed,

While (Britain keeps their seas

Immune from enemies.

Oh, foolish eyes and blind,

When safety lies

In Britain's flag defined

On Austral's skies.

Were Britain's flag to fall

We would not live at all.

Some mothers send their sons

With words of cheer

To help the helpless ones

So far from here;

All who are frail and weak

To these true mothers speak.

Oh, mothers, all awake!

This bugle-call

Bids you for others' sake

To give your all.

Shall children in their pain

Cry on your sons in vain?