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