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
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
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
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.
