Nationalism is a silly cock crowing on his own dunghill.

Richard Aldington, scarred by the Great War and hardened by disillusionment, once gave the world a bitter yet luminous truth: “Nationalism is a silly cock crowing on his own dunghill.” In this image—simple, mocking, and profound—he revealed the vanity of narrow pride. For the rooster, strutting atop his pile of refuse, crows as though he were master of the world. Yet he rules over nothing but filth. So too, Aldington warns, does the man of blind nationalism proclaim his nation’s greatness, while ignorant of the greater world, and heedless of the cost of his arrogance.

The origin of these words lies in Aldington’s own life. As a soldier in the First World War, he had marched through mud and blood, had seen men broken, and had watched entire generations sacrificed for the vanity of nations. He knew well how governments cloaked ambition in the name of patriotism, and how people were taught to cheer for their “own side” as though crowing from a dung heap was glory. His metaphor is no accident—it is the cry of one who saw the futility of war waged for pride alone, and who despised the foolishness that drove men to their graves.

History offers us countless confirmations of his image. Consider the generals and politicians of 1914, who sent millions into the trenches with promises of honor and victory. Each nation declared itself righteous, superior, destined to triumph. Yet what did they gain? Cities reduced to rubble, landscapes poisoned, families shattered. Like roosters crowing on dung, they made noise but achieved only ruin. Their nationalism was loud, but it was empty, for true greatness cannot grow from blood-stained arrogance.

And yet Aldington’s words do not condemn love of country itself; they condemn its distortion. There is a difference between patriotism, which is love, and nationalism, which is boastfulness. Patriotism tends a garden, but nationalism crows upon a dunghill. Patriotism builds, serves, sacrifices for the good of all; nationalism struts, shouts, and tramples others underfoot. Aldington mocks the latter because it destroys what it pretends to exalt, reducing nations to noise and pride, while leaving their people poorer, lonelier, and broken.

The teaching here is both humble and heroic. True greatness does not need to shout from the rooftops; it is proven in quiet deeds. The strongest nations are not those that boast the loudest, but those that live with justice, mercy, and wisdom. The most honorable citizens are not those who sneer at others, but those who lift up their neighbors and walk humbly with their own heritage. Aldington’s cock on the dunghill is a warning: beware of those who mistake noise for strength, pride for love, and arrogance for truth.

The lesson for us is clear: reject the shallow call of empty nationalism. Love your land, but do not scorn the lands of others. Be proud of your people, but without despising other peoples. Strive not to be the loudest, but to be the most just, the most compassionate, the most steadfast in truth. For when nations compete only in noise, they descend to the rooster’s dunghill. But when they compete in goodness, in wisdom, and in service to humanity, then they rise toward greatness that no mockery can diminish.

Therefore, let us remember Aldington’s warning. Do not be as the rooster, crowing from a heap of dung, believing yourself great because of noise. Be instead as the humble gardener, who tends his soil quietly, and by patience and care brings forth fruit that nourishes all. In this way, you will not only honor your homeland but also honor the dignity of all mankind. Such is the true way of the patriot: not noise and strut, but labor and love.

So let his words echo through the generations: “Nationalism is a silly cock crowing on his own dunghill.” Laugh at the arrogance it mocks, but take its wisdom to heart. Love your country, yes—but love it wisely, humbly, and with deeds that bring life, not death. In this way, your love will not be vanity but strength, not boasting but blessing, not a crow on a dunghill, but a song worthy of the heavens.