The air groweth crisp.
Indeed.
The great guns slay from a league away, the death- bolts fly unseen,
And bellowing hill replies to hill, machine to brute machine,
But still in the end when the long lines bend and the battle hangs in doubt,
They take to the steel in the same old way that their fathers fought it out.
It is man to man and breast to breast and eye to bloodshot eye
And the reach and twist of the thrusting wrist,
as it was in the days gone by!
Along the shaken hills the guns their drumming thunder roll --
But the keen blades thrill with the lust to kill that leaps from the slayer's soul!
For hand and heart and living steel, one pulse of hate they feel.
Is your clan afraid of the naked blade?
Does it flinch from the bitter steel?
Perish your dreams of conquest then, your swollen hopes and bold,
For empire dwells with the stabbing blade, as it did in the days of old!
Donald Robert Perry Marquis, The Bayonet
