The Convent garden lies so near
The road the people go,
If it was quiet you might hear
The nuns' talk, merry and low.
Black London trees have made their screen
From folk who pry and peer,
The sooty sparrows now begin
Their talk of country cheer.
And round and round by twos and threes
The nuns walk, praying still
For fighting men across the seas
Who die to save them ill.
From the dear prison of her choice
The young nun's thoughts are far;
She muses on the golden boys
At all the Fronts of War.
Now from her narrow Convent house
She sees where great ships be,
And plucks the robe of God, her Spouse,
To give the victory.
Under her robe her heart's a-beat,
Her maiden pulses stir,
At sound of marching in the street,
To think they die for her!
And now beneath the veil and hood
Her hidden eyes will glow,
The battle ardour's in her blood --
If she might strike one blow!
And when she sleeps at last perchance
Her soul hath slipped away
To fields of Serbia and of France
Until the dawn of day.
She wanders by the still moonbeam
By dying and by dead,
And many a broken man will dream
An angel lifts his head.
All day and night as a sweet smoke
Her prayer ascends the skies
That all her piteous fighting folk
May walk in Paradise.
And still her innocent pulses stir,
Her heart is proud and high,
To think that men should die for her --
And the marching feet go by.
