Western Camps

THREE men stood with their glasses lifted, Night was around them and flaring lamps: 'Here's to the tried and true and sifted; Here's to the flotsam tossed and drifted; Here's to the men in the Outcast-camps, 'Stars that fall are their lot for ever; Lights that perish and stars that fall; Fighting Fate with a brave heart ever — Drifting leaves on a wayward river — Men for ever in spite of all. 'Here's to the gallant souls defeated; Here's to the strong souls under-trod, Hope-abandoned and mirage-cheated — And yet, by right of their failure, seated Somewhere close to the feet of God. 'Here's to the heart that braves undaunted Toil and trouble for home and wife; Here's to the spirit mocked and taunted; Here's to the memory, sorrow-haunted; Here's to the soul grown sick of life. 'Drink to the man at the camp-fire sitting; Drink to his mistress of long ago; Well — 'twere well — and the time were fitting, If, in the shades of the firelight flitting, She should come with her eyes aglow. 'Drink to the purpose, iron, oaken, Brought to nought by a wanton's guile; Drink to men with an old love-token Somewhere close to their brave hearts broken; Drink to the martyred souls that smile. 'Drink to courage and all fine daring — Spirit trampling the flesh beneath; Drink to the reckless heart uncaring; Drink to mates at the last pinch sharing Their little all in the face of death. 'Last toast this . . . may their hearts discover, On every track that the outcast tramps, A friend in need, and at need a lover, Green grass around them and kind stars over, And dreams of peace in their Western Camps.'