The poem
My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot -- I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night, And as the war's red rim I trace, I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, Our God don't turn away 'Is Face.
I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see As man destroys his brother man; I waves no flag: I only know, As 'ere beside the dead I wait, A million 'earts is weighed with woe, A million 'omes is desolate.
In drippin' darkness, far and near, All night I've sought them woeful ones. Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear The crimson chorus of the guns. Look! like a ball of blood the sun 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" O Prince of Peace! 'ow long, 'ow long?