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diff --git a/16632.txt b/16632.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5339f41 --- /dev/null +++ b/16632.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4628 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Over Here, by Edgar A. Guest + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Over Here + + +Author: Edgar A. Guest + + + +Release Date: September 2, 2005 [eBook #16632] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER HERE*** + + +E-text prepared by Pat Saumell and Chuck Greif + + + +OVER HERE + +by + +EDGAR A. GUEST + +Author of "A Heap o' Livin'" "Just Folks" + +The Reilly & Britton Co. +Chicago + +1918 + + + + + + + +To the Mothers Over Here + + + + +INDEX + +Alarm, The +America +April Thoughts +As It Looks to the Boy +Battle Prayer, A +Beautifying the Flag +Better Thing, The +Big Deeds, The +Bigger Than His Dad +Boy Enlists, The +Boy's Adventure, The +Call, The +Call to Service, The +Change, The +Chaplain, The +Christmas, 1918 +Christmas Box, The +Christmas Greeting, A +Complacent Slacker, The +Constant Beauty +Creed, A +Discovery of a Soul, The +Do Your All +Drafted +Duty +Easy Service +Envy +Everywhere in America +Exempt +Father's Prayer, A +Father's Thoughts, A +Father's Tribute, A +Flag, The +Flag on the Farm, The +Fly a Clean Flag +Follow the Flag +For Your Boy and Mine +Friendly Greeting, The +From Laughter to Labor +Future, The +General Pershing +Girl He Left Behind, The +Glory of Age, The +Gold Givers, The +Good Luck +Good Soldier, A +Hate +Here We Are! +His Room +His Santa Claus +Honor Roll, The +Hope +I Follow a Famous Father +Ideals +If He Should Meet a Mother There +Important Thing, The +Joy to Be, The +July the Fourth, 1917 +Kelly Ingram +Life's Slacker +Living +Memorial Day +Mother Faith, The +Mother on the Sidewalk, The +Mothers and Wives +My Part +New Year, The +Next of Kin +Our Duty to Our Flag +Out of It All +Over Here +Patriot, A +Patriotic Creed, A +Patriotic Wish, A +Plea, A +Prayer, A +Prayer, 1918, A +Princess Pats, The +Proof of Worth, The +Prophecy +Rebellion +Reflection +Runner McGee +See It Through +Selfishness +Show the Flag +Soldier on Crutches, The +Soldierly +Spring in the Trenches +Struggle, The +Sympathy +Taking His Place +Thanksgiving +Things That Make a Soldier Great, The +Thoughts of a Soldier +Time for Deeds, The +To a Kindly Critic +To a Lady Knitting +To the Men at Home +Undaunted, The +United +Unsettled Scores, The +Waiter at the Camp, The +Warriors +War's Homecoming +We Need a Few More Optimists +We've Had a Letter From the Boy +We Who Stay at Home +When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat +Why We Fight +Wish, A +Wrist Watch Man, The +Your Country Needs You + + + * * * * * + + + + + + Over Here + + + Pledged to the bravest and the best, + We stand, who cannot share the fray, + Staunch for the danger and the test. + For them at night we kneel and pray. + Be with them, Lord, who serve the truth, + And make us worthy of our youth! + + Here mother-love and father-love + Unite in love of country now; + Here to the flag that flies above, + Our heads we reverently bow; + Here as one people, night and day, + For victory we work and pray. + + Nor race nor creed shall difference make, + Nor bigot mar the zealot's plan; + We give our all for Freedom's sake, + Each man a king, each king a man. + Make us the equal, Lord, we pray + Of them who die for truth to-day! + + Let us as gladly give our best, + Let us as bravely pay the price + As they, who in the bitter test + Meet the supremest sacrifice. + Oh, God! Wherever we are led, + Let us be worthy of our dead! + + Let us not compromise the truth, + Let us not cringe so much in fear + That foes may whisper to our youth + That we have failed in courage here. + Lord, strengthen us, that they may know + Our spirits follow where they go! + + + + Why We Fight + + + This is the thing we fight: + A cry of terror in the night; + A ship on work of mercy bent-- + A carrier of the sick and maimed-- + Beneath the cruel waters sent, + And those that did it, unashamed. + + A woman who had tried to fill + A mother's place; had nursed the ill + And soothed the troubled brows of pain + And earned the dying's grateful prayers, + Before a wall by soldiers slain! + And such a poor pretext was theirs! + + Old women pierced by bayonets grim + And babies slaughtered for a whim, + Cathedrals made the sport of shells, + No mercy, even for a child, + As though the imps of all the hells + Were crazed with drink and running wild. + + All this we fight--that some day when + Good sense shall come again to men, + Our children's children may not read + This age's history thus defamed + And find we served a selfish creed + And ever be of us ashamed! + + + + America + + + God has been good to men. He gave + His Only Son their souls to save, + And then he made a second gift, + Which from their dreary lives should lift + The tyrant's yoke and set them free + From all who'd throttle liberty. + He gave America to men-- + Fashioned this land we love, and then + Deep in her forests sowed the seed + Which was to serve man's earthly need. + + When wisps of smoke first upwards curled + From pilgrim fires, upon the world + Unnoticed and unseen, began + God's second work of grace for man. + Here where the savage roamed and fought, + God sowed the seed of nobler thought; + Here to the land we love to claim, + The pioneers of freedom came; + Here has been cradled all that's best + In every human mind and breast. + + For full four hundred years and more + Our land has stretched her welcoming shore + To weary feet from soils afar; + Soul-shackled serfs of king and czar + Have journeyed here and toiled and sung + And talked of freedom to their young, + And God above has smiled to see + This precious work of liberty, + And watched this second gift He gave + The dreary lives of men to save. + + And now, when liberty's at bay, + And blood-stained tyrants force the fray, + Worn warriors, battling for the right, + Crushed by oppression's cruel might, + Hear in the dark through which they grope + America's glad cry of hope: + Man's liberty is not to die! + America is standing by! + World-wide shall human lives be free: + America has crossed the sea! + + America! the land we love! + God's second gift from Heaven above, + Builded and fashioned out of truth, + Sinewed by Him with splendid youth + For that glad day when shall be furled + All tyrant flags throughout the world. + For this our banner holds the sky: + That liberty shall never die. + For this, America began: + To make a brotherhood of man. + + + + The Time for Deeds + + + We have boasted our courage in moments of ease, + Our star-spangled banner we've flung on the breeze; + We have taught men to cheer for its beauty and worth, + And have called it the flag of the bravest on earth + Now the dark days are here, we must stand to the test. + Oh, God! let us prove we are true to our best! + + We have drunk to our flag, and we've talked of the right, + We have challenged oppression to show us its might; + We have strutted for years through the world as a race + That for God and for country, earth's tyrants would face; + Now the gage is flung down, hate is loosed in the world. + Oh, God! shall our flag in dishonor be furled? + + We have said we are brave; we have preached of the truth, + We have walked in conceit of the strength of our youth; + We have mocked at the ramparts and guns of the foe, + As though we believed we could laugh them all low. + Now oppression has struck! We are challenged to fight! + Oh, God! let us prove we can stand for the right! + + If in honor and glory our flag is to wave, + If we are to keep this--the land of the brave; + If more than fine words are to fashion our creeds, + Now must our hands and our hearts turn to deeds. + We are challenged by tyrants our strength to reveal! + Oh, God! let us prove that our courage is real! + + + + Everywhere in America + + + Not somewhere in America, but everywhere to-day, + Where snow-crowned mountains hold their heads, + the vales where children play, + Beside the bench and whirring lathe, on every + lake and stream + And in the depths of earth below, men share a + common dream-- + The dream our brave forefathers had of freedom + and of right, + And once again in honor's cause, they rally and + unite. + + Not somewhere in America is love of country + found, + But east and west and north and south once + more the bugles sound, + And once again, as one, men stand to break + their brother's chains, + And make the world a better place, where only + justice reigns. + The patriotism that is here, is echoed over there, + The hero at a certain post is on guard everywhere. + O'er humble home and mansion rich the starry + banner flies, + And far and near throughout the land the men + of valor rise. + + The flag that flutters o'er your home is fluttering + far away + O'er homes that you have never seen. The same + impulses sway + The souls of men in distant states. The red, the + white and blue + Means to one hundred million strong, just what + it means to you. + The self-same courage resolute you feel and + understand + Is throbbing in the breasts of men throughout + this mighty land. + Not somewhere in America, but everywhere to-day, + For justice and for liberty all free men work + and pray. + + + + The Things That Make a Soldier Great + + + The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die, + To face the flaming cannon's mouth, nor ever question why, + Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red, + The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed, + The grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall: + 'Tis these that make a soldier great. He's fighting for them all. + + 'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave; + 'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave; + For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam + As when behind the cause they see the little place called home. + Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run-- + You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun. + + What is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees? + The little garden far away, the budding apple trees, + The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play, + Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray. + The golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome + But to the spot, where'er it be--the humble spot called home. + + And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there, + And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air; + The tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green, + And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been. + He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call, + And only death can stop him now--he's fighting for them all. + + + + The Flag + + + We never knew how much the Flag + Could mean, until he went away, + We used to boast of it and brag, + As something of a by-gone day; + But now the Flag can start our tears + In moments of our greatest joy, + Old Glory in the sky appears + The symbol of our little boy. + + We knew that sometimes people wept + To see the Flag go waving by, + But never guessed the griefs they kept-- + We never understood just why. + But now our eyes grow quickly dim, + Our voices choke with sobs to-day; + The Flag is telling us of him, + Our little boy who's gone away. + + We never knew the Flag could be + So much a part of human life, + We thought it beautiful to see + Before these bitter days of strife; + But now more beautiful it gleams, + And deeper in our hearts it dwells; + It is the emblem of our dreams, + For of our little boy it tells. + + + + A Battle Prayer + + + God of battles, be with us now: + Guard our sons from the lead of shame, + Watch our sons when the cannons flame, + Let them not to a tyrant bow. + + God of battles, to Thee we pray: + Be with each loyal son who fights + In the cause of justice and human rights, + Grant him strength and lead the way. + + God of battles, our youth we give + To the battle line on a foreign soil, + To conquer hatred and lust and spoil; + Grant that they and their cause shall live. + + + + Good Luck + + + Good luck! That's all I'm saying, as you sail across the sea; + The best o' luck, in the parting, is the prayer you get from me. + May you never meet a danger that you won't come safely through, + May you never meet a German that can get the best of you; + Oh! A thousand things may happen when a fellow's at the front, + A thousand different mishaps, but here's hoping that they won't. + + Good luck! That's all I'm saying, as you turn away to go, + Good luck and plenty of it, may it be your lot to know; + May you never meet rough weather, but remember if you do + That the folks at home are wishing that you'll all come safely through. + Oh! A thousand things may happen when a fellow bears the brunt + Of His Country's fight for glory, but I'm praying that they won't. + + Good luck! That's all I'm saying as you're falling into line; + May the splendor of your service bring you everything that's fine; + May the fates deal kindly with you, may you never know distress, + And may every task you tackle end triumphant with success. + Oh! A thousand things may happen that with joy your life will fill; + You may not get all the gladness, but I'm hoping that you will. + + + + A Prayer, 1918 + + + Oh, make us worthy, + God, we pray, + To do thy service + Here to-day; + Endow us with + The strength we need + For every + Sacrificial deed! + + + + The Change + + + 'Twas hard to think that he must go, + We knew that we should miss him so, + We thought that he must always stay + Beside us, laughing, day by day; + That he must never know the care + And hurt and grief of life out there. + Then came the call for youth, and he + Talked with his mother and with me, + And suddenly we learned the boy + Was hungering to know the joy + Of doing something real with life, + And that he craved the test of strife. + + And so we steeled ourselves to dread; + To see at night his empty bed; + To feel the silence and the gloom + That hovers o'er his vacant room, + And though we wept the day he went, + And many a lonely hour we've spent, + We've come to think as he, somehow, + And we are more contented now; + We're proud that we can stand and say + We have a boy who's gone away. + And we are glad to know that he + Is serving where he ought to be. + + It's queer, the change that time has brought: + We're different now in speech and thought; + His letters home mean joy to us, + His difficulties we discuss. + When word of his promotion came, + His mother, with her eyes aflame + With happiness and pride, rushed out + To tell the neighbors round about. + Her boy! Her boy is doing well! + What greater news can mothers tell? + I think that pity now we show + For those who have no boys to go. + + + + Mothers and Wives + + + Mothers and wives, 'tis the call to arms + That the bugler yonder prepares to sound; + We stand on the brink of war's alarms + And your men may lie on a blood-stained + ground. + The drums may play and the flags may fly, + And our boys may don the brown and blue, + And the call that summons brave men to die + Is the call for glorious women, too. + + Mothers and wives, if the summons comes, + You, as ever since war has been, + Must hear with courage the rolling drums + And dry your tears when the flags are seen. + For never has hero fought and died + Who has braver been than the mother, who + Buckled his saber at his side, + And sent him forward to dare and do. + + Mothers and wives, should the call ring out, + It is you must answer your country's cry; + You must furnish brave hearts and stout + For the firing line where the heroes die. + And never a corpse on the field of strife + Should be honored more in his country's sight + Than the noble mother or noble wife + Who sent him forth in the cause of right. + + Mothers and wives, 'tis the call for men + To give their strength and to give their lives; + But well we know, such a summons then + Is the call for mothers and loyal wives, + For you must give us the strength we need, + You must give us the boys in blue, + For never a boy or a man shall bleed + But a mother or wife shall suffer, too. + + + + The Call to Service + + + These are the days when little thoughts + Must cease men's minds to occupy; + The nation needs men's larger creeds, + Big men must answer to her cry; + No longer selfish ways we tread, + The greater task lies just ahead. + + These are the days when petty things + By all men must be thrust aside; + The country needs men's finest deeds, + Awakened is the nation's pride; + Men must forsake their selfish strife + Once more to guard their country's life. + + + + Kelly Ingram + + + His name was Kelly Ingram; he was Alabama's son, + And he whistled "Yankee Doodle," as he stood beside his gun; + There was laughter in his make-up, there was manhood in his face, + And he knew the best traditions and the courage of his race; + Now there's not a heart among us but should swell with loyal pride + When he thinks of Kelly Ingram and the splendid way he died. + + On the swift Destroyer Cassin he was merely gunner's mate, + But up there to-day, I fancy, he is standing with the great. + On that grim day last October his position on the craft + Was that portion of the vessel which the sailors christen aft; + There were deep sea bombs beside him to be dropped upon the Hun + Who makes women folks his victims and then gloats o'er what he's done. + + From the lookout came a warning; came the cry all sailors fear, + A torpedo was approaching, and the vessel's doom was near; + Ingram saw the streak of danger, but he saw a little more, + A greater menace faced them than that missile had in store; + If those deep sea bombs beside him were not thrown beneath the wave, + Every man aboard the Cassin soon would find a watery grave. + + It was death for him to linger, but he figured if he ran + And quit his post of duty, 'twould be death for every man; + So he stood at his position, threw those depth bombs overboard, + And when that torpedo struck them, he went forth to meet his Lord. + Oh, I don't know how to say it, but these whole United States + Should remember Kelly Ingram--he who died to save his mates. + + + + The Joy to Be + + + Oh, mother, be you brave of heart and keep + your bright eyes shining; + Some day the smiles of joy shall start and you + shall cease repining. + Beyond the dim and distant line the days of + peace are waiting, + When you shall have your soldier fine, and men + shall turn from hating. + + Oh, mother, bear the pain a-while, as long ago + you bore it; + You suffered then to win his smile, and you + were happier for it; + And now you suffer once again, and bear your + weight of sorrow; + Yet you shall thrill with gladness when he wins + the glad to-morrow. + + Oh, mother, when the cannons roar and all the + brave are fighting, + Remember that the son you bore the wrongs + of earth is righting; + Remember through the hours of pain that he + with all his brothers + Is battling there to win again a happy world + for mothers. + + + + He Should Meet a Mother There + + + If he should meet a mother there + Along some winding Flanders road, + No extra touch of grief or care + He'll add unto her heavy load. + But he will kindly take her arm + And tender as her son will be; + He'll lead her from the path of harm + Because of me. + + Be she the mother of his foe, + He will not speak to her in hate; + My boy will never stoop so low + As motherhood to desecrate. + But she shall know what once I knew-- + Eyes that are glorious to see, + The light of manhood shining through-- + Because of me. + + He will salute her as they meet, + And stand before her bare of head; + If she be hungry, she may eat + His last remaining bit of bread. + She'll find those splendid arms and strong + Quick to assist her, tenderly, + And they will guard her from all wrong + Because of me. + + I miss his thoughtful, loving care; + I miss his smile these dreary days; + But should he meet a mother there, + Helpless and lost in war's grim maze, + She need not fear to take his arm, + As though she'd reared him at her knee; + My son will shield her from all harm + Because of me. + + + + A Father's Tribute + + + I don't know what they'll put him at, or what + his post may be; + I cannot guess the task that waits for him across + the sea, + But I have known him through the years, and + when there's work to do, + I know he'll meet his duty well, I'll swear that + he'll be true. + + I sometimes fear that he may die, but never that + he'll shirk; + If death shall want him death must go and take + him at his work; + This splendid sacrifice he makes is filled with + terrors grim, + And I have many thoughts of fear, but not one + fear of him. + + The foe may rob my life of joy, the foe may + take my all, + And desolate my days shall be if he shall have to + fall. + But this I know, whate'er may be the grief that + I must face, + Upon his record there will be no blemish of + disgrace. + + His days have all been splendid days, there lies + no broken trust + Along the pathway of his youth to molder in + the dust; + Honor and truth have marked his ways, in him + I can be glad; + He is as fine and true a son as ever a father had. + + + + Runner McGee + + + (Who had "Return if Possible" Orders.) + + "You've heard a good deal of the telephone + wires," he said as we sat at our ease, + And talked of the struggle that's taking men's + lives in these terrible days o'er the seas, + "But I've been through the thick of the thing + and I know when a battle's begun, + It isn't the phone you depend on for help. It's + the legs of a boy who can run. + + "It isn't because of the phone that I'm here. + To-day you are talking to me + Because of the grit and the pluck of a boy. His + title was Runner McGee. + We were up to our dead line an' fighting alone; + some plan had miscarried, I guess, + And the help we were promised had failed to + arrive. We were showing all signs of + distress. + + "Our curtain of fire was ahead of us still, an' + theirs was behind us an' thick, + An' there wasn't a thing we could do for ourselves--the + few of us left had to stick. + You haven't much chance to get central an' talk + on the phone to the music of guns; + Gettin' word to the chief is a matter right then + that is up to the fellow who runs. + + "I'd sent four of 'em back with the R. I. P. + sign, which means to return if you can, + But none of 'em got through the curtain of fire; + my hurry call died with the man. + Then Runner McGee said he'd try to get through. + I hated to order the kid + On his mission of death; thought he'd never get + by, but somehow or other he did. + + "Yes, he's dead. Died an hour after bringing + us word that the chief was aware of our + plight, + An' for us to hang on to the ditch that we held; + the reserves would relieve us at night. + Then we stuck to our trench an' we stuck to our + guns; you know how you'll fight when + you know + That new strength is coming to fill up the gaps. + There's heart in the force of your blow. + + "It wasn't till later I got all the facts. They + wanted McGee to remain. + They begged him to stay. He had cheated death + once an' was foolish to try it again. + 'R. I. P. are my orders,' he answered them all, + 'an' back to the boys I must go; + Four of us died comin' out with the news. It + will help them to know that you know.'" + + + + The Girl He Left Behind + + + We used to think her frivolous--you know how + parents are, + A little quick to see the faults and petty flaws + that mar + The girl their son is fond of and may choose + to make his wife, + A little overjealous of the one who'd share his + life; + But the girl he left behind him when he bravely + marched away + Has blossomed into beauty that we see and need + to-day. + + She was with us at the depot, and we turned our + backs a-while, + And her eyes were sad and misty, though she + tried her best to smile. + Then she put her arm round mother, and it + seemed to me as though + They just grew to love each other, for they + shared a common woe. + Now she often comes to see us, and it seems + to me we find + A heap of solid comfort in the girl he left behind. + + "She's so sensible and gentle," mother said last + night to me, + "The kind of girl I've often wished and prayed + his wife would be. + And I like to have her near us, for she understands + my sighs + And I see my brave boy smiling when I look into + her eyes." + Now the presence of his sweetheart seems to fill + our home with joy. + She's no longer young and flighty--she's the + girl who loves our boy. + + + + A Patriotic Creed + + + To serve my country day by day + At any humble post I may; + To honor and respect her Flag, + To live the traits of which I brag; + To be American in deed + As well as in my printed creed. + + To stand for truth and honest toil, + To till my little patch of soil + And keep in mind the debt I owe + To them who died that I might know + My country, prosperous and free, + And passed this heritage to me. + + I must always in trouble's hour + Be guided by the men in power; + For God and country I must live, + My best for God and country give; + No act of mine that men may scan + Must shame the name American. + + To do my best and play my part, + American in mind and heart; + To serve the flag and bravely stand + To guard the glory of my land; + To be American in deed, + God grant me strength to keep this creed. + + + + His Room + + + His room is as it used to be + Before he went away, + The walls still keep the pennants he + Brought home but yesterday. + The picture of his baseball team + Still holds its favored spot, + And oh, it seems a dreadful dream + This age of shell and shot! + + His golf clubs in the corner stand; + His tennis racket, too, + That once the pressure of his hand + In times of laughter knew + Is in the place it long has kept + For us to look upon. + The room is as it was, except + The boy, himself, has gone. + + The pictures of his girls are here, + Still smiling as of yore, + And everything that he held dear + Is treasured as before. + Into his room his mother goes + As usual, day by day, + And cares for it, although she knows + Our boy is far away. + + We keep it as he left it, when + He bade us all good-bye, + Though I confess that, now and then, + We view it with a sigh. + For never night shall thrill with joy + Nor day be free from gloom + Until once more our soldier boy + Shall occupy his room. + + + + Envy + + + It's a bigger thing you're doing than the most of us have done; + We have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun, + And upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife; + Yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life. + Oh, I don't know how to say it, but I'll never think of you + Without wishing I were sharing in the work you have to do. + + I have never known a moment that was fraught with real care, + Save the hurts and griefs of sorrow that all mortals have to bear; + With the gay and smiling marchers I have tramped on pleasant ways, + And have paid with feeble service for the gladness of my days. + But to you has come a summons, yours are days of sacrifice, + And for all life has of sweetness you must pay a bitter price. + + Men have fought and died before me, men must fight and die to-day, + I have merely taken pleasures for which others had to pay; + I have been a man of laughter, there's no path my feet have made, + I have merely been a marcher in life's gaudy dress parade. + But you wear the garb of service, you have splendid deeds to do, + You shall sound the depths of manhood, and my boy, I envy you. + + + + For Your Boy and Mine + + + Your dream and my dream is not that we shall rest, + But that our children after us shall know life at its best; + For all we care about ourselves--a crust of bread or two, + A place to sleep and clothes to wear is all that we'd pursue. + We'd tramp the world on sunny days, both light of heart and mind, + And give no thought to days to come or days we leave behind. + + Your dream and my dream is not that we shall play, + But that our children after us shall tread a merry way. + We brave the toil of life for them, for them we clamber high, + And if 'twould spare them hurt and pain, for them we'd gladly die. + If we had but ourselves to serve, we'd quit the ways of pride + And with the simplest joys of earth we'd all be satisfied. + + The best for them is what we dream. Our little girls and boys + Must know the finest life can give of comforts and of joys. + They must be shielded well from woe and kept secure from care, + And if we could, upon our backs, their burdens we would bear. + And so once more we rise to-day to face the battle zone + That those who follow us may know the Flag that we have known. + + Your dream and my dream is not that we shall live; + The greatest joys we hope to claim are those that we shall give. + We face the heat and strife of life, its battle and its toil + That those who follow us may know the best of freedom's soil. + And if we knew that by our death we'd keep that flag on high, + For your boy and my boy, how gladly we would die. + + + + Soldierly + + + The glory of a soldier--and a soldier's not a saint-- + Is the way he does his duty without grumbling or complaint; + His work's not always pleasant, but he does it rain or shine, + And he grabs a bit of glory when he's fighting in the line; + But the lesson that he teaches every day to me an' you + Is the way to do a duty that we do not like to do. + + Any sort o' chap can whistle when his work is mostly fun; + A hundred want the pleasant jobs to every sturdy one + That'll grab the dreary duty an' the mean an' lowly task, + Or the drab an' cheerless service that life often has to ask; + But somebody has to do it, an' the test of me an' you + Is the way we face the labor that we do not like to do. + + Now, it isn't very pleasant standin' guard out in the rain + But it's in the line o' duty, an' no soldier will complain, + An' there isn't any soldier but what sometimes hates his work + When the dress parade is over, an' perhaps he'd like to shirk, + But he's there to follow orders, not to pick an' choose his post, + An' he sometimes shines the finest at the job he hates the most. + + Let's be soldiers in the struggle, let's be loyal through and through; + Life is going to give us duties that perhaps we'll hate to do. + There'll be little sacrifices that we will not like to make, + There'll be many tasks unpleasant that will fall to us to take. + An' although we all would rather do the work that brings applause, + Let's forget our whims and fancies an' just labor for the cause. + + + + The Alarm + + + Get off your downy cots of ease, + There's work that must be done. + Great danger's riding on the seas. + The storm is coming on. + Don't think that it will quickly pass. + Who smiles at distant fate, + And waits until it strikes, alas! + Has roused himself too late. + + Who thinks the fight will end before + The need of him arrives, + Is lengthening this brutal war + And costing many lives. + For over us that storm shall break + Ere many weeks have fled, + And we shall pay for our mistake + In fields of mangled dead. + + Be ready when the foe shall near, + Be there to strike him hard; + Let us, though he be miles from here, + Be standing now on guard. + To-morrow's victories won't be won + By pluck that we display + To-morrow when the foe comes on, + But by our work to-day. + + + + The Boy Enlists + + + His mother's eyes are saddened, and her cheeks + are stained with tears, + And I'm facing now the struggle that I've + dreaded through the years; + For the boy that was our baby has been changed + into a man. + He's enlisted in the army as a true American. + + He held her for a moment in his arms before + he spoke, + And I watched him as he kissed her, and it + seemed to me I'd choke, + For I knew just what was coming, and I knew + just what he'd done! + 'Another little mother had a soldier for a son. + + When we'd pulled ourselves together, and the + first quick tears had dried, + We could see his eyes were blazing with the fire + of manly pride; + We could see his head was higher than it ever + was before, + For we had a man to cherish, and our baby was + no more. + + Oh, I don't know how to say it! With the sorrow + comes the joy + That there isn't any coward in the make-up of + our boy. + And with pride our hearts are swelling, though + with grief they're also hit, + For the boy that was our baby has stepped + forth to do his bit, + + + + The Mother Faith + + + Little mother, life's adventure calls your boy away, + Yet he will return to you on some brighter day; + Dry your tears and cease to sigh, keep your mother smile, + Brave and strong he will come back in a little while. + + Little mother, heed them not--they who preach despair-- + You shall have your boy again, brave and oh, so fair! + Life has need of him to-day, but with victory won, + Safely life shall bring to you once again your son. + + Little mother, keep the faith: not to death he goes; + Share with him the joy of worth that your soldier knows. + He is giving to the Flag all that man can give, + And if you believe he will, surely he will live. + + Little mother, through the night of his absence long, + Never cease to think of him--brave and well and strong; + You shall know his kiss again, you shall see his smile, + For your boy shall come to you in a little while. + + + + Thoughts of a Soldier + + + Since men with life must purchase life + And some must die that more may live, + Unto the Great Cashier of strife + A fine accounting let me give. + Perhaps to-morrow I shall stand + Before his cage, prepared to buy + New splendor for my native land: + Oh, God, then bravely let me die! + + If after I shall fall, shall rise + A fairer land than I have known, + I shall not grudge my sacrifice, + Although I pay the price alone. + If still more beautiful to see + The Stars and Stripes o'er men shall wave + And finer shall my country be, + To-morrow let me find my grave. + + To-night life seems so fair and sweet, + Yet tyranny is stalking here, + And hate and lust and foul deceit + Hang heavy on the atmosphere. + Injustice seeks to throttle right, + And laughter's stifled to a sigh. + If death can take so great a blight + From human lives, then let me die. + + If death must be the cost of life, + And freedom's terms are human souls, + Into the thickest of the strife + Then let me go to pay the tolls. + I would enrich my native land, + New splendor to her flag I'd give, + If where I fall shall freedom stand, + And where I die shall freedom live. + + To-morrow death with me may trade; + Let me not quibble o'er the price; + But may I, once the bargain's made, + With courage meet the sacrifice. + If happiness for ages long + My little term of life can buy, + God, for my country make me strong; + To-morrow let me bravely die. + + + + The Flag on the Farm + + + We've raised a flagpole on the farm + And flung Old Glory to the sky, + And it's another touch of charm + That seems to cheer the passer-by, + But more than that, no matter where + We're laboring in wood and field, + We turn and see it in the air, + Our promise of a greater yield. + It whispers to us all day long + From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong; + Who falters now with plough or hoe + Gives comfort to his country's foe." + + It seems to me I've never tried + To do so much about the place, + Nor been so slow to come inside, + But since I've got the Flag to face, + Each night when I come home to rest + I feel that I must look up there + And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best, + To-day I've tried to do my share." + And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, + I stop my work, and o'er the trees + Old Glory fairly shouts my way: + "You're shirking far too much to-day!" + + The help have caught the spirit, too; + The hired man takes off his cap + Before the old red, white and blue, + Then to the horses says: "Giddap!" + And starting bravely to the field + He tells the milkmaid by the door: + "We're going to make these acres yield + More than they've ever done before." + She smiles to hear his gallant brag, + Then drops a curtsey to the Flag, + And in her eyes there seems to shine + A patriotism that is fine. + + 'We've raised a flagpole on the farm + And flung Old Glory to the sky, + We're far removed from war's alarm, + But courage here is running high. + We're doing things we never dreamed + We'd ever find the time to do; + Deeds that impossible once seemed + Each morning now we hurry through. + The Flag now waves above our toil + And sheds its glory on the soil, + And boy and man look up to it + As if to say: "I'll do my bit!" + + + + The Mother on the Sidewalk + + + The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by + Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky. + Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, + But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; + 'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray + For the brave and loyal mother of the boy that goes away. + + There are days of grief before her, there are hours that she will weep, + There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; + She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, + And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. + And no man shall ever surfer in the turmoil of the fray + The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away. + + You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, + But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, + And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave + Who has given the Flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave. + And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white + Is a lasting tribute holy to all mothers' love of right. + + + + The Big Deeds + + + We are done with little thinking and we're done with little deeds, + We are done with petty conduct and we're done with narrow creeds; + We have grown to men and women, and we've noble work to do, + And to-day we are a people with a larger point of view. + In a big way we must labor, if our Flag shall always fly. + In a big way some must suffer, in a big way some must die. + + There must be no little dreaming in the visions that we see, + There must be no selfish planning in the joys that are to be; + 'We have set our faces eastwards to the rising of the sun + That shall light a better nation, and there's big work to be done. + And the petty souls and narrow, seeking only selfish gain, + Shall be vanquished by the toilers big enough to suffer pain. + + It's a big task we have taken; 'tis for others we must fight. + We must see our duty clearly in a white and shining light; + We must quit our little circles where we've moved in little ways, + And work, as men and women, for the bigger, better days. + We must quit our selfish thinking and our narrow views and creeds. + And as people, big and splendid, we must do the bigger deeds. + + + + The Wrist Watch Man + + + He is marching dusty highways and he's riding bitter trails, + His eyes are clear and shining and his muscles hard as nails. + He is wearing Yankee khaki and a healthy coat of tan, + And the chap that we are backing is the Wrist Watch Man. + + He's no parlor dude, a-prancing, he's no puny pacifist, + And it's not for affectation there's a watch upon his wrist. + He's a fine two-fisted scrapper, he is pure American, + And the backbone of the nation is the Wrist Watch Man. + + He is marching with a rifle, he is digging in a trench, + He is swapping English phrases with a poilu for his French; + You will find him in the navy doing anything he can, + For at every post of duty is the Wrist Watch Man. + + Oh, the time was that we chuckled at the soft and flabby chap + Who wore a little wrist watch that was fastened with a strap. + But the chuckles all have vanished, and with glory now we scan + The courage and the splendor of the Wrist Watch Man. + + He is not the man we laughed at, not the one who won our jeers, + He's the man that we are proud of, he's the man that owns our cheers; + He's the finest of the finest, he's the bravest of the clan, + And I pray for God's protection for our Wrist Watch Man. + + + Follow the Flag + + + Aye, we will follow the Flag + Wherever she goes, + Into the tropic sun, + Into the northern snows; + Go where the guns ring out + Scattering steel and lead, + Painting the hills with blood, + Strewing the fields with dead. + But in each heart must be, + And back of each bitter gun, + Love for the best in life + After the fighting's done. + + Aye, we will follow the Flag + Into benighted lands, + Brave in the faith for which, + Proudly, our banner stands. + Life for her life we'll pay, + Blood for her blood we'll give, + Fighting, but not to kill, + Save that the best shall live. + But, when the cannon's roar + Dies in a hymn of peace, + Justice and truth must reign, + Power of the brute must cease. + + Aye, we will follow the Flag, + Gladly her work we'll do, + Banishing wrongs of old, + Founding the truth anew. + What though our guns must speak, + What though brave men must die, + Ages of truth to come + All this shall justify. + Men in the charms of peace, + Basking in Freedom's sun, + Some day shall bless our Flag + After our work is done. + + Aye, we will follow the Flag + Wherever she goes, + Into the tropic sun, + Into the northern snows. + Fearlessly, on we'll go + Into the cruel strife, + Gladly the few shall die, + Winning for many, life. + Tyranny's wrongs must cease, + Brutes must no longer brag, + This is our work on earth, + So we will follow the Flag. + + + + We've Had a Letter From the Boy + + + We've had a letter from the boy, + And oh, the gladness and the joy + It brought to us! We read it o'er + I'd say a dozen times or more. + We laughed until the teardrops fell + At all the fun he had to tell. + He's in the navy, wearing blue, + And everything is all so new + That he can see in youthful style + The funny things to make us smile. + + He's working hard! Between the lines + We gather that. The brass he shines + Without complaining, and the food + He gets to eat is very crude. + And yet he laughs at all his chores. + He says the maid who scrubs our floors + Will have to quit when he returns + Unless a better way she learns. + "I've got it on the fairer sex," + Says he, "since I am swabbing decks." + + "A sailor's life, dear Mom," writes he, + "Is not the life you picked for me. + And yet I'm getting fat and strong + And learning as I go along + That any life a man can find + Is apt to grow to be a grind + Unless a fellow has the wit + To see the brighter side of it. + Don't worry for your sailor son; + He sleeps well when his work is done." + + We've had a letter from the boy, + And oh, the gladness and the joy + It brought to us! 'Twas good to know + That he is facing duty so. + Between the lines that he had penned + His mother's bitter fears to end, + I saw his manhood glowing bright, + And now I know his heart is right. + Behind the laughter I could see + My boy's the man I'd hoped he'd be. + + + + Exempt + + + They have said you needn't go to the front to face the foe; + They have left you with jour women and your children safe at home; + They have spared you from the crash of the murderous guns that flash + And the horrors and the madness and the death across the foam. + But it's your fight, just the same, and your country still must claim + The splendor of your manhood and the best that you can do; + In a thousand different ways through the dark and troubled days, + You must stand behind the nation that has been so good to you. + + You're exempt from shot and shell, from the havoc and the hell + That have robbed the world of gladness; you have missed the sterner fate + Of the brave young men and fine, that are falling into line, + You may stay among your children who are swinging on the gate. + But you're not exempt from love of the Flag that flies above, + You've a greater obligation to your country to be true; + You must work from day to day in a bigger, better way + For the glory of the nation that has been so good to you. + + You are not exempt from trial, from long days of self-denial, + From devotion to your homeland and from courage in the test. + You are not exempt from giving to your country's needs and living + As a citizen and soldier--an example of the best. + You've a harder task before you than the boys who're fighting for you, + You must match their splendid courage and devotion through and through; + You must prove by fine endeavor, and by standing constant ever + That you're worthy of the country that has been so good to you. + + + + Duty + + + We know not where the path may lead nor what the end may be, + The clouds are dark above us now, the future none can see, + And yet when all the storms have passed, and cannons cease to roar, + We shall be prouder of our flag than we have been before. + + We could not longer idle stay, spectators of a wrong, + The weak were crying out for help against oppression strong; + And though we pray we may be spared the bitterness of strife, + 'Twere better that we die than live the coward's feeble life. + + We could not longer silent sit, our glory at an end, + And blind ourselves unto the wrongs committed by a friend; + We must be tolerant with all, yet in these days of hate, + Some things have happened that it would be shame to tolerate. + + And now we stand before the world, erect and calm and grave, + And speak the words that decency must rule the land and wave; + Into the chaos of despair we fling ourselves to-day + As guardians of a precious trust hate must not sweep away. + + We must rejoice, if we are men, not weak and soft of heart + That we have heeded duty's call, and taken up our part. + And when at last sweet peace shall come, and all the strife is o'er, + We shall be prouder of our flag than we have been before, + + + + A Prayer + + + God grant to us the strength of men, + The patience of the brave; + The wisdom to be silent, when + The days with doubt are grave. + When dangers come, as come they must, + Throughout the trying hours + Let us continue still to trust + That triumph shall be ours. + + We have foresworn our days of ease + To battle for the right, + To venture over troubled seas + Oppression's wrongs to fight. + And we have pledged ourselves to grief, + And bitter hurt and pain, + Then must we cling to this belief: + We suffer not in vain. + + God grant to us the strength of men, + God help us to be true + Until that glorious morning when + The world shall smile anew. + We shall be tested sore and tried, + And flayed by many fears, + Yet let us in this faith abide, + That right shall rule the years. + + + + Sympathy + + + One came to the house with a pretty speech: + "It's all for the best," said he, + And I know that he sought my heart to reach, + And I know that he grieved with me. + + But I was too full of my sorrow then + To list to his words or care; + Though I've tried I cannot recall again + The comfort he gave me there. + + But another came, and his lips were dumb + As he grasped me by the hand, + And he stammered: "Old man, I had to come, + Oh, I hope you'll understand." + + And ever since then I have felt his hand + Clasped tightly in my own, + And to-day his silence I understand-- + My sorrowing he had known. + + + + Hate + + + They say we must not hate, nor fight in hate. + I've thought it over many a solemn hour, + And cannot mildly view the man or state + That has no thought, save only to be great; + I cannot love the creature drunk with power. + I hate the hand that slaughters babes at sea, + I hate that will that orders wives to die. + And there is something rises up in me + When brutes run wild in crime and lechery + That soft adjustments will not satisfy. + + Men seldom fight the things they do not hate; + A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn; + Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate; + You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait, + And change his nature with to-morrow's morn. + If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go; + Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign; + Honor and shame together cannot grow, + Sin either conquers or we lay it low, + Wrong must be hated if the truth remain. + + I hold that we must fight this war in hate-- + In bitter hate of blood in fury spilled; + Of children, bending over book and slate, + Slaughtered to make a Prussian despot great; + In hate of mothers pitilessly killed. + In hate of liars plotting wars for gain; + In hate of crimes too black for printed page; + In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign-- + And crush forever all within his train. + Such hate shall be the glory of our age. + + + + General Pershing + + + He isn't long on speeches. At the banquet table, he + Could name a dozen places where he would much rather be. + He's not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review, + But he's busy every minute when he's got a job to do. + And you'll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square + For the glory of his country when his boys get over there. + + He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France, + And he knows that he's the leader of America's advance, + And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail, + So he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail. + And you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare, + And he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there. + + He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep + O'er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep, + And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers, + With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears. + He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share, + And he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there. + + + + The Better Thing + + + It is better to die for the flag, + For its red and its white and its blue, + Than to hang back and shirk and to lag + And let the flag sink out of view. + It is better to give up this life + In the heat and the thick of the strife + Than to live out your days 'neath a sky, + Where Old Glory shall never more fly. + + The peace that we long for will be + Far worse than the war that we dread + If never again we're to see + The blue, and the white and the red + Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies. + If ever the Stars and Stripes dies + Or loses its lustre and pride, + We shall wish in our souls we had died. + + It is better by far that we die + Than that flag shall pass out of the world; + If ever it ceases to fly, + If ever it's hauled down and furled, + Dishonor shall stamp us with shame + And freedom be naught but a name, + And the few years of dearly-bought breath + Will be filled with worse horrors than death. + + + + To a Lady Knitting + + + Little woman, hourly sitting, + Something for a soldier knitting, + What in fancy can you see? + Many pictures come to me + Through the stitch that now you're making: + I behold a bullet breaking; + I can see some soldier lying + In that garment slowly dying, + And that very bit of thread + In your fingers, turns to red. + Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow + Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow. + + It may be some hero daring + Shall that very thing be wearing + When he ventures forth to give + Life that other men may live. + He may braver wield the saber + As a tribute to your labor, + And for that, which you have knitted, + Better for his task be fitted. + When the thread has left your finger, + Something of yourself may linger, + Something of your lovely beauty + May sustain him in his duty. + + Some one's boy that was a baby + Soon shall wear it, and it may be + He will write and tell his mother + Of the kindness of another, + And her spirit shall caress you, + And her prayers at night shall bless you. + You may never know its story, + Cannot know the grief or glory + That are destined now and hover + Over him your wool shall cover, + Nor what spirit shall invade it + Once your gentle hands have made it. + + Little woman, hourly sitting, + Something for a soldier knitting, + 'Tis no common garb you're making, + These, no common pains you're taking. + Something lovely, holy, lingers + O'er the needles in your fingers + And with every stitch you're weaving + Something of yourself you're leaving. + From your gentle hands and tender + There may come a nation's splendor, + And from this, your simple duty, + Life may win a fairer beauty. + + + + A Good Soldier + + + He writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us! + I can't describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us. + He says the military life is not of his selection, + He's only soldiering to-day to give the Flag protection. + But since he's in the army now and doing duties humble, + He'll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble. + + He's not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping, + "But when I must," he writes to us, "they'll never find me sleeping! + I hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us + And there's no doubt that mother's meals can beat the ones they get us, + But since I'm here to do my bit, close to the job I'm sticking; + I'll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking. + + "I'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel, + I'd like to get my picture in some illustrated journal; + I don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way, + Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway. + But still I'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one, + For while I am a private here I'm going to be a good one. + + "A soldier's life is not the way I'd choose to make my living, + But now I'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it I'm giving. + Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I'd consider finer, + But since I've got this one to do I'll never be a whiner. + I'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter, + They'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better." + + + + His Santa Claus + + + He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy, + An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy; + Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head, + And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed, + But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance; + This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France. + + His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay; + Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play; + This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands + That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands. + He is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance, + But he that was his Santa Claus is in a trench in France. + + Somewhere in France this Christmas Eve a soldier brave will be, + And all that night in fancy he will trim a Christmas tree; + And all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had + When he was good St. Nicholas unto a certain lad. + And he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance, + Will find his stocking empty just because he serves in France. + + + + Show the Flag + + + Show the flag and let it wave + As a symbol of the brave; + Let it float upon the breeze + As a sign for each who sees + That beneath it, where it rides, + Loyalty to-day abides. + + Show the flag and signify + That it wasn't born to die; + Let its colors speak for you + That you still are standing true, + True in sight of God and man + To the work that flag began. + + Show the flag that all may see + That you serve humanity. + Let it whisper to the breeze + That comes singing through the trees + That whatever storms descend + You'll be faithful to the end. + + Show the flag and let it fly, + Cheering every passer-by--Men + that may have stepped aside, + May have lost their old-time pride, + May behold it there, and then + Consecrate themselves again. + + Show the flag! The day is gone + When men blindly hurry on + Serving only gods of gold; + Now the spirit that was cold + Warms again to courage fine. + Show the flag and fall in line! + + + + The Honor Roll + + + The boys upon the honor roll, God bless them all, I pray! + God watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day. + We've stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows, + Our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes. + + Oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true, + The little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew; + We thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games, + And then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names. + + We missed their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday + We had them here to walk with us, and now they've marched away. + And here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll; + The absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll. + + So quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change, + One day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange, + And when we questioned where they were, the sturdiest of us all, + We saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall. + + The laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth + No longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing sombre truth. + No longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls, + For they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls. + + + + The Princess Pats + + + A touch of the plain and the prairie, + A bit of the Motherland, too; + A strain of the fur-trapper wary, + A blend of the old and the new; + A bit of the pioneer splendor + That opened the wilderness' flats, + A touch of the home-lover, tender, + You'll find in the boys they call Pats. + + The glory and grace of the maple, + The strength that is born of the wheat, + The pride of a stock that is staple, + The bronze of a midsummer heat; + A blending of wisdom and daring, + The best of a new land, and that's + The regiment gallantly bearing + The neat little title of Pats. + + A bit of the man who has neighbored + With mountains and forests and streams, + A touch of the man who has labored + To model and fashion his dreams; + The strength of an age of clean living, + Of right-minded fatherly chats, + The best that a land could be giving + Is there in the breasts of the Pats. + + + + July the Fourth, 1917 + + + Time was the cry went round the world: + America for freedom speaks, + A new flag is to-day unfurled, + An eagle on the mountain shrieks, + A king is failing on his throne, + A race of men defies his power! + And no one could have guessed or known + The burden of that splendid hour. + + A bell rang out that summer day + And men and women stood and heard; + That tongue of brass had more to say + Than could be spoken by a word. + It spoke the thoughts of honest men, + It whispered Destiny's intents + And rang a warning loudly then + To Kings of all the continents. + + The old bell in its holy loft + Where pigeons nest, has ceased to swing + And yet through many a day and oft + A weary people hear it sing. + That hour long years ago, when first + America for freedom fought, + The bonds of slavery were burst: + That hour began the reign of thought. + + Here comes another summer day: + America is on the sea, + America has dared to say + That other people shall be free. + No selfish stain her banner mars, + Her flag, for truth and right, unfurled, + With every stripe and all its stars + Still speaks its message to the world + + Out where the soldiers fight for men, + Out where, for others, heroes die, + Out where they storm the Tyrant's den, + The Starry Banner lights the sky. + And once again the cry goes out + That brings the flush of hope to cheeks + Grown pale by bitter war and doubt: + "America for Freedom speaks." + + + + Spring in the Trenches + + + It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, + Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around; + The sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, + And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war were through. + + But it's tramp, tramp, tramp, + And it's never look behind, + And when you see a stranger's kids, + Pretend that you are blind. + + The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; + The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate. + And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil, + With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil. + + But it's fight, fight, fight, + And it's charge at double-quick; + A soldier thinking thoughts of home + Is one more soldier sick. + + Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; + This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood. + Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; + To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me. + + But it's shoot, shoot, shoot, + And when the bullets hiss, + Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, + For weeping soldiers miss. + + Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds? + And who will do the heavy work the little garden needs? + And who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know, + And take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go? + + For it's charge, charge, charge, + And it's face the foe once more; + Forget the things you love the most + And keep your mind on war. + + + + Bigger Than His Dad + + + He has heard his country calling, and has fallen into line, + And he's doing something bigger than his daddy ever did; + He has caught a greater vision than the finest one of mine, + And I know to-day I'm prouder of than sorry for the kid. + + His speech is soft and vibrant with the messages of truth, + And he says some things of duty that I cannot understand; + It may be that I'm selfish, but this ending of his youth + Is not the dream I cherished and it's not the thing I planned. + + I only know he's bigger in his uniform to-day + Than I, who stand and watch him as he drills, have ever been; + That he sees a greater vision of life's purpose far away, + And a finer goal to die for than my eyes have ever seen. + + I wish I felt as he does, wish I had his sense of right; + With the vision he possesses I should be supremely glad; + But I sometimes start to choking when I think of him at night-- + The boy that has grown bigger, yes, and better than his dad. + + + + The Boy's Adventure + + + "Dear Father," he wrote me from Somewhere in France, + Where he's waiting with Pershing to lead the advance, + "There's little the censor permits me to tell + Save the fact that I'm here and am happy and well. + The French people cheered as we marched from our ship + At the close of a really remarkable trip; + They danced and they screamed and they shouted and ran, + And I blush as I write. I was kissed by a man! + + "I've seen a great deal since I bade you good-bye, + I have witnessed a battle far up in the sky; + I have heard the dull roar of a long line of guns, + And seen the destruction that's worked by the Huns; + Some scenes I'll remember, and some I'll forget, + But the welcome he gave me! I'm feeling it yet. + Oh, try to imagine your boy if you can, + As he looked and he felt, being kissed by a man! + + "'Ah, Meestaire!' he cried in a voice that was shrill, + And his queer little eyes with delight seemed to fill, + And before I was wise to the custom, or knew + Just what he was up to, about me he threw + His arms, and he hugged me, and then with a squeak, + He planted a chaste little kiss on each cheek. + He was stocky and strong and his whiskers were tan. + Now please keep it dark. I've been kissed by a man." + + + + Out of It All + + + Out of it all shall come splendor and gladness; + Out of the madness and out of the sadness, + Clearer and finer the world shall arise. + Why then keep sorrow and doubt in your eyes? + + Joy shall be ours when the warfare is over; + Children shall gleefully romp in the clover; + Here with our heroes at home and at rest, + We shall rejoice with the world at its best. + + Not in vain, not in vain, is our bright banner flying; + Not for naught are the sons of our fond mothers dying; + The gloom and despair are not ever to last; + The world shall be better when they shall have passed. + + So mourn not his absence, but smile and be brave; + You shall have him again from the brink of the grave + In a wonderful world 'neath a wonderful sun; + He shall come to your arms with his victory won. + + + + The Christmas Box + + + Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied, + And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside, + But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay + And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day. + + He'll spend his Christmas 'neath the Flag; he'll miss each merry face, + Old Glory smiling down on him must take his mother's place, + Yet in the Christmas box we've sent, in fancy he will find + The laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind. + + His mother's tenderness is there, his father's kindly way, + And all that went last year to make his merry Christmas Day; + He'll see once more his sister's smile, he'll hear the baby shout, + And as he opens every gift we'll gather round about. + + He cannot come to share with us the joys of Christmas Day; + The Flag has called to him, and he is serving far away. + Undaunted, unafraid and fine he stands to duty grim, + And so this Christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him. + + + + A Plea + + + God grant me these: the strength to do + Some needed service here; + The wisdom to be brave and true; + The gift of vision clear, + That in each task that comes to me + Some purpose I may plainly see. + + God teach me to believe that I + Am stationed at a post, + Although the humblest 'neath the sky, + Where I am needed most, + And that, at last, if I do well, + My humble services will tell. + + God grant me faith to stand on guard, + Uncheered, unspoke, alone, + And see behind such duty hard + My service to the throne. + Whate'er my task, be this my creed: + I am on earth to fill a need. + + + + Your Country Needs You + + + The country needs a man like you, + It has a task for you to do. + It has a job for you to face. + Somewhere for you it has a place. + Not all the slackers dodge the work + Of service where the cannon lurk, + Not all the slackers on life's stage + Are boys of military age. + The old, the youthful and unfit + Must also do their little bit. + + The country needs a man like you, + 'Twill suffer if you prove untrue. + What though you cannot bear a gun? + That isn't all that's to be done. + There are a thousand other ways + To serve your country through the days + Of trial and the nights of storm. + You need not wear a uniform + Or with the men in council sit + To serve the Flag and do your bit. + + Somewhere for you there is a place, + Somewhere you have a task to face. + There's none so helpless or so frail + That cannot, when our foes assail, + In some way help our common cause + And be deserving of applause. + Behind the Flag we all must be, + Each at his post, awake to see + That in so far as he has striven, + His best was to his country given. + + You can be patient, brave and strong, + And not complain when plans go wrong; + You can be cheerful at your toil, + Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil; + You can encourage others who + Have heavier, greater tasks to do; + You can be loyal, not in creed + Alone, but in each thought and deed; + You can make sacrifices, too. + The country needs a man like you, + + + + A Creed + + + To keep in mind from day to day + That I'm a soldier in the fray; + That I must serve, from sun to sun, + As well as he who bears a gun + The flag that flies above us all, + And answer well my Country's call. + + I must not for one hour forget + Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt. + 'Twas spotless on' my day of birth, + And when at last I quit this earth + Old Glory still must spotless be + For all who follow after me. + + At some post where my work will fit + I must with courage do my bit; + Some portion of myself I'd give + That freedom and the Flag may live. + And in some way I want to feel + That I am doing service real. + + I must in all I say and do + Respect the red, the white and blue', + Nor dim with petty deeds of shame + The splendor of Old Glory's fame; + I must not let my standards drag, + For my disgrace would stain the Flag. + + + + The Struggle + + + Life is a struggle for peace, + A longing for rest, + A hope for the battles to cease, + A dream for the best; + And he is not living who stays + Contented with things, + Unconcerned with the work of the days + And all that it brings. + + He is dead who sees nothing to change, + No wrong to make right; + Who travels no new way or strange + In search of the light; + Who never sets out for a goal + That he sees from afar + But contents his indifferent soul + With things as they are. + + Life isn't rest--it is toil; + It is building a dream; + It is tilling a parcel of soil + Or bridging a stream; + It's pursuing the light of a star + That but dimly we see, + And in wresting from things as they are + The joy that should be. + + + + As It Looks to the Boy + + + His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, + His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, + His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride + And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side. + Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad + Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad. + + He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street, + He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet; + And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday, + Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way. + He will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night, + His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right. + + Oh, I'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go, + And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know, + But the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth, + And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth. + He will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart + Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part. + + Have you kept him, gentle mother? Has he lost his old-time cheer? + Is he silent, sad and sullen? Are his eyes no longer clear? + Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong? + Then a secret grief he's nursing and I'll tell you what is wrong. + All his comrades have departed on their country's noblest work, + And he hungers to be with them--it is not his wish to shirk. + + + + Fly a Clean Flag + + + This I heard the Old Flag say + As I passed it yesterday: + "Months ago your friendly hands + Fastened me on slender strands + And with patriotic love + Placed me here to wave above + You and yours. I heard you say + On that long departed day: + 'Flag of all that's true and fine, + Wave above this house of mine; + Be the first at break of day + And the last at night to say + To the world this word of cheer: + Loyalty abideth here.' + + "Here on every wind that's blown, + O'er your" portal I have flown; + Rain and snow have battered me, + Storms at night have tattered me; + Dust of street and chimney stack + Day by day have stained me black, + And I've watched you passing there, + Wondering how much you care. + Have you noticed that your flag, + Is to-day a wind-blown rag? + Has your love so careless grown + By the long neglect you've shown + That you never raise your eye + To the symbol that you fly?" + + "Flag, on which no stain has been, + 'Tis my sin that you're unclean," + Then I answered in my shame. + "On my head must lie the blame. + Now with patriotic hands + I release you from your strands, + And a spotless flag shall fly + Here to greet each passer-by. + Nevermore shall Flag of mine + Be a sad and sorry sign + Telling all who look above + I neglect the thing I love. + But my Flag of faith shall be + Fit for every eye to see." + + + + To a Kindly Critic + + + If it's wrong to believe in the land that we love + And to pray for Our Flag to the good God above; + If it's wrong to believe that Our Country is best; + That honor's her standard, and truth is her crest; + If placing her first in our prayers and our song + Is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong. + + If it's wrong to wish victory day after day + For the troops of Our Country now marching away; + If it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right + And not by the love and the lure of the fight; + If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong + Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong. + + If it's wrong to believe in America's dreams + Of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems; + If it's error to cherish the hope, through and through, + That the Stars in Old Glory's immaculate blue + Shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men, + We pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen. + + + + War's Homecoming + + + We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France, + And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance, + The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away, + We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray. + We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land, + But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand. + + There, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped, + And some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread; + Some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled, + And every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled. + There, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come, + And now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum. + + Their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech. + We never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach. + We talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof, + Nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof. + But England's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of France; + Our little boy is on the sea with Death to take his chance. + + + + Next of Kin + + + I notice when the news comes in + Of one who's claimed eternal glory, + This simple phrase, "the next of kin," + Concludes the soldier's final story. + This tells the world what voice will choke, + What heart that bit of shrapnel broke, + What father or what mother brave + Will think of Flanders as a grave. + + "The next of kin," the cable cold + Wastes not a precious word in telling, + Yet cannot you and I behold + The sorrow in some humble dwelling, + And cannot you and I perceive + The brave yet lonely mother grieve + And picture, when that news comes in, + The anguish of "the next of kin?" + + For every boy in uniform, + Another soldier brave is fighting; + A double rank the cannons storm, + Two lines the cables are uniting, + And with the hurt each soldier feels, + At home the other warrior reels; + Two suffer, freedom's cause to win: + The soldier and "the next of kin." + + Oh, next of kin, be brave, be strong, + As brave as was the boy that's missing; + The years will many be and long + That you will hunger for his kissing. + Yet he enlisted you with him + To share war's bitter price and grim; + Your service runs through many years + Because your name with his appears. + + + + See It Through + + + There are many to cheer when the battle begins + There are many to shout for the right; + There are many to rail at the world and its sins + But few have the grit for the fight. + There are thousands to start with a rush for the fray + When the fighting seems easy to do, + But when danger is present and rough is the way, + The few have to see the job through. + + It is easy to quit with a battle unwon, + It is hard to press on to success; + It is easy to stop with a purpose undone, + It is hard to encounter distress. + And many will march when the roadway is clear + And the glorious goal is in view, + But the many, too often, when dangers appear, + Aren't willing to see the fight through. + + They weaken in spirit when trials grow great, + They flinch at the clashing of steel; + They talk of the strength of the foe at the gate + And whine at the hurts that they feel. + They begin to regret having ventured for right, + They sigh that they dared to be true, + They haven't the heart they once had for the fight, + They don't want to see the job through. + + We have set out to battle for justice and truth, + We have fearful disasters to meet; + We shall weep for the best of our manliest youth, + We shall suffer the pangs of defeat. + But let us stand firm for the cause that we plead, + Let the many be brave with the few; + The cry of the quitter let none of us heed + Till we've done what we started to do. + + + + Hope + + + Mine is a song of hope + For the days that lie before; + For the grander things + The morrow brings + When the struggle days are o'er. + Dark be the clouds to-day, + Bitter the winds that blow, + But falter nor fail, + Through the howling gale-- + Comes peace in the afterglow. + + Mine is the song of hope, + A song for the mother here, + Who lulls to rest + The babe at breast, + And hopes for a brighter year. + Hope is the song she sings, + Hope is the prayer she prays; + As she rocks her boy, + She dreams of the joy + He'll bring in the future days. + + Mine is the song of hope, + A song for the father, too, + Whose right arm swings, + While his anvil sings + A song of the journey through. + Hope is the star that guides, + Hope is the father's sun; + Far ahead he sees, + Through the waving trees, + Sweet peace when his work is done. + + Mine is the song of hope, + Of hope that sustains us all; + Be we young or old, + Be we weak or bold, + Do we falter or even fall, + Brightly the star of hope + From the distance is shining still; + And with courage new + We rise to do, + For hope is the God of Will. + + + + The Gold Givers + + + Oh, some shall stand in glory's light when all the strife is done, + And many a mother there shall say, "For truth I gave my son!" + But I shall stand in silence then and hear the stories brave, + For I must answer at the last that gold is all I gave. + + When all this age shall pass away, and silenced are the guns, + When sweethearts join their loves again, and mothers kiss their sons, + When brave unto the brave return, and all they did is told, + How pitiful my gift shall seem, when all I gave is gold. + + When we are asked what did you then, when all the world was red, + And some shall say, "I fell in France," and some, "I mourned my dead;" + With all the brave assembled there in glory long to live, + How trivial our lives shall seem who had but gold to give. + + + + The Undaunted + + + He tried to travel No Man's Land, that's guarded well with guns, + He tried to race the road of death, where never a coward runs. + Now he's asking of his doctor, and he's panting hard for breath, + How soon he will be ready for another bout with death. + + You'd think if you had wakened in a shell hole's slime and mud + That was partly dirty water, but was mostly human blood, + And you had to lie and suffer till the bullets ceased to hum + And the night time dropped its cover, so the stretcher boys could come-- + + You'd think if you had suffered from a fever and its thirst, + And could hear the "rapids" spitting and the high explosives burst, + And had lived to tell that story--you could face our fellow men + In the little peaceful village, though you never fought again. + + You'd think that once you'd fallen in the shrapnel's deadly rain, + Once you'd shed your blood for honor, you had borne your share of pain; + Once you'd traveled No Man's country, you'd be satisfied to quit + And be invalided homeward, and could say you'd done your bit. + + But he's lying, patched and bandaged, very white and very weak, + And he's trying to be cheerful, though it's agony to speak; + He is pleading with the doctor, though he's panting hard for breath, + To return him to the trenches for another bout with death. + + + + The Discovery of a Soul + + + _The proof of a man is the danger test_, + _That shows him up at his worst or best_. + + He didn't seem to care for work, he wasn't much at school. + His speech was slow and commonplace--you wouldn't call him fool. + And yet until the war broke out you'd calmly pass him by, + For nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye. + He seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn't care-- + That's satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear; + That doesn't laugh when others do or cry when others weep, + But seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep; + Then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll, + And suddenly we realized his body held a soul. + + We little dreamed how much he loved his Country and her Flag; + About the glorious Stars and Stripes we'd never heard him brag. + But he was first to volunteer, while brilliant men demurred, + He took the oath of loyalty without a faltering word, + And then we found that he could talk, for one remembered night, + There came a preaching pacifist denouncing men who fight, + And he got up in uniform and looked at him and said: + "I wonder if you ever think about our soldiers dead. + All that you are to-day you owe some soldier in his grave; + If he had been afraid to fight, you still would be a slave." + + If he had died a year ago beneath a peaceful sky, + Unjust our memory would have been; of him our tongues would lie. + We should have missed his splendid worth, we should have called him frail + And listed him among the weak and sorry men who fail. + But few regrets had marked his end; he would have passed unmourned-- + Perhaps by those who knew him best, indifferently scorned. + But now he stands among us all, eyes bright and shoulders true, + A strong defender of the faith; a man with work to do; + And if he dies, his name shall find its place on history's scroll; + The great chance has revealed to men the splendor of his soul. + + + + Here We Are! + + + Here we are, Britain! the finest and best of us + Taking our coats off and rolling our sleeves, + Answering the thoughtless that once made a jest of us, + Each man a soldier for what he believes. + Here we are, tight little island, in unity! + Tell us the job that you want us to do! + You can depend on us all with impunity. + Give us a task and we'll all see it through. + + Here we are, France! every Yankee born man of us + Coming to stand by your side in the fight; + Liberty's cause makes a whole-hearted clan of us. + Here we are, willing to die for the right. + Silently, long from our shores we've admired you, + Secretly proud of the pluck you've displayed. + Brothers we are of the love that inspired you; + Now we are coming, full front, to your aid. + + Here we are, Allies! make room in your trenches! + Shoulder to shoulder we'll share in each drive. + Here we are! quitting our lathes and our benches, + Bringing our best that our best shall survive. + Here we are! Liberty's children, red-blooded, + Coming to share in the struggle with you, + Ready to die for the Flag that's star-studded; + Tell us the work that you want us to do. + + What is it, fighting or building you're needing? + Boring a mountain or bridging a stream, + Steel work and real work? Your call we are heeding. + Each of us here is a man with a dream. + Here we are! tacklers of tough jobs and dangers, + Any old post where you put us we'll fit; + Coming to serve you as brothers, not strangers; + Here we are, Allies! to offer our bit! + + + + We Who Stay at Home + + + When you were just our little boy, on many a night we crept + Unto your cot and watched o'er you, and all the time you slept. + We tucked the covers round your form and smoothed your pillow, too, + And sometimes stooped and kissed your cheeks, but that you never knew. + Just as we came to you back then through many a night and day, + Our spirits now shall come to you--to kiss and watch and pray. + + Whenever you shall look away into God's patch of sky + To think about the folks at home, we shall be standing by. + And as we prayed and watched o'er you when you were wrapped in sleep, + So through your soldier danger now the old-time watch we'll keep. + You will not know that we are there, you will not see or hear, + But all the time in prayer and thought we shall be very near. + + The world has made of you a man; the work of man you do, + But unto us you still remain the baby that we knew; + And we shall come, as once we did, on wondrous wings of prayer, + And you will never know how oft in spirit we are there. + We'll stand beside your bed at night, in silence bending low, + And all the love we gave you then shall follow where you go. + + Oh, we were proud of you back then, but we are prouder now; + We see the stamp of splendor God has placed upon your brow, + And we who are the folks at home shall pray the old time prayer, + And ask the God of Mercy to protect you with His care. + And as we came to you of old, although you never knew, + The hearts of us, each day and night, shall come with love to you. + + + + Do Your All + + + "Do your bit!" How cheap and trite + Seems that phrase in such a fight! + "Do your bit!" That cry recall, + Change it now to "Do your all!" + Do your all, and then do more; + Do what you're best fitted for; + Do your utmost, do and give, + You have but one life to live. + + Do your finest, do your best, + Don't let up and stop to rest, + Don't sit back and idly say: + "I did something yesterday." + Come on! Here's another hour, + Give it all you have of power. + Here's another day that needs + Everybody's share of deeds. + + "Do your bit!" of course, but then + Do it time and time again; + Giving, doing, all should be + Up to full capacity. + Now's no time to pick and choose, + We've a war we must not lose. + Be your duty great or small, + Do it well and do it all. + + Do by careful, patient living, + Do by cheerful, open giving; + Do by serving day by day + At whatever post you may; + Do by sacrificing pleasure, + Do by scorning hours of leisure. + Now to God and country give + Every minute that you live. + + + + The Future + + + "The worst is yet to come:" + So wail the doubters glum, + But here's the better view: + "My best I've yet to do." + + The worst some always fear; + To-morrow holds no cheer, + Yet farther on life's lane + Are joys you shall attain. + + Go forward bravely, then, + And play your part as men, + For this is ever true: + "Our best we've yet to do." + + + + A Father's Prayer + + + I sometimes wonder when I read the sorrow in his face + If I shall wear that look of care when time has marched apace? + My little boy is five years old and his is twenty-one; + My little boy is home with me; his boy to war has gone. + + And I can laugh and dance with life, and I can gayly jest, + But heavy is the heart to-day that beats within his breast. + Time was, his boy was five years old; time was he smiled as I; + I wonder what awaits for me when youth has journeyed by? + + Last night I sat at home and watched my little boy at play, + And all the time I thought of him whose boy has gone away. + And in the joy that I possessed I prayed in silence then + That God would quickly bring him back his little boy again. + + + + The Glory of Age + + + "What is the glory of age?" I said, + "A hoard of gold and a few dear friends? + When you've reached the day that you look ahead + And see the place where your journey ends, + When Time has robbed you of youthful might-- + What is the secret of your delight?" + + And an old man smiled as he answered me: + "The glory of age isn't gold or friends, + When we've reached the valley of Soon-To-Be + And note the place where our journey ends; + The glory of age, be it understood, + Is a boy out there who is making good. + + "The greatest joy that can come to man + When his sight is dim and his hair is gray; + The greatest glory that God can plan + To cheer the lives of the old to-day, + When they share no more in the battle yell, + Is a boy out there who is doing well." + + + + Beautifying the Flag + + + To us the Flag has little meant. + Each glorious stripe of red + Was woven there to represent + The blood of heroes dead. + On some dim, distant battle line + By other men were gained + The glories that have made it fine, + And idle we've remained. + But now the Flag shall finer grow + And ages yet to be + Shall find the courage that we show + To-day for liberty. + + Of other men the Flag has told; + It flies for others' deeds; + Its pride is born of heroes bold + Who served its by-gone needs. + But now our blood shall mingle there + With blood of patriots dead, + And through the years each stripe shall wear + A deeper, truer red. + The splendor of the flag shall gleam + In every radiant star, + And finer shall the banner seem + Because of what we are. + + To-day new glory for the Flag + We give our best to build; + Of us shall future ages brag, + By us their blood be thrilled; + And as to us the flag has meant + The greatness of the past, + The Stars and Stripes shall represent + Our courage to the last. + The children in the years to be + Our trials shall discuss, + And cheer the emblem of the free, + In part, because of us. + + + + To the Men at Home + + + No war is won by cannon fire alone; + The soldier bears the grim and dreary role; + He dies to serve the Flag that he has known; + His duty is to gain the distant goal. + But if the toiler in his homeland fair + Falter in faith and shrink from every test, + If he be not on duty ever there, + Lost to the cause is every soldier's best. + + The men at home, the toiler in the shop, + The keen-eyed watcher of the spinning drill + Hear no command to vault the trench's top; + They know not what it is to die or kill, + And yet they must be brave and constant, too. + Upon them lies their precious country's fate; + They also serve the Flag as soldiers do, + 'Tis theirs to make a nation's army great. + + You hold your country's honor in your care. + Her glory you shall help to make or mar; + For they, who now her uniforms must wear + Can be no braver soldiers than you are. + From day to day, in big and little deeds, + At bench or lathe or desk or stretch of soil, + You are the man your country sorely needs! + Will you not give to her your finest toil? + + No war is won by cannon fire alone. + The men at home must also share the fight. + By what they are, a nation's strength is shown, + The army but reflects their love of right. + Will you not help to hold our battle line, + Will you not give the fullest of your powers + In sacrifice and service that is fine + That victory shall speedily be ours? + + + + From Laughter to Labor + + + We have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure, + We have scorned the soul's duty to gather up treasure; + We have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning + And paid little heed to the soul's simple sinning. + But light were the burdens that freighted us then, + God and country, to-day let us prove we are men! + + We have idled and dreamed in life's merriest places, + The years have writ little of care in our faces; + We have brought up our children, expectant of gladness, + And little we've taught them of life and its sadness. + For distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong, + God and country, to-day let us prove we are strong! + + We have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming, + We have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war's drumming. + We have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled, + And now we must show that our souls are unspoiled. + We must work that our Flag shall in honor still wave, + God and country, to-day let us prove we are brave! + + + + United + + + Forgotten petty difference now, + The larger purpose glows, + The storm is here, a common fear + Its deadly lightning shows. + The Ship of State must bear us all + And danger makes us kin, + As one, we all shall rise or fall, + So shall we strive to win. + + Our banner's flying at the mast, + Our course lies straight ahead; + The ocean's trough is deep and rough, + The waves are stained with red. + The bond of danger tighter grows, + We serve a common plan; + Send o'er the sea the word that we + Are all American. + + One hundred million sturdy souls + Once more united stand, + As one, you will find them all behind + The banner of our land. + And side by side they work to-day + In silken garb or rag, + And once again our troops of men + Are brothers of the flag. + + And from the storm that hovers low, + And from the angry sea + Where dangers lurk and hate's at work. + Shall come new victory. + The flag shall know not race nor creed, + Nor different bands of men; + A people strong round it shall throng + To ne'er divide again. + + + + April Thoughts + + + Listen to the laughter of the brook that's racin' by! + Listen to the chatter of the black-birds on the fence! + Stand an' see the beauties of the blue that's in the sky-- + Then ask of God why mortals haven't any better sense + Than to quarrel an' to battle + Where the guns an' cannon rattle + An' to slaughter one another an' to fill the world with hate. + God brings the buds to blossom + Where the gentle breezes toss 'em + An' the soul is blind to beauty that takes anger for its mate. + + Listen to the singin' of the robins in the trees! + See the sunbeams flashin' where they're mirrored by the stream! + Hear the drowsy buzzin' of the honey-seekin' bees, + Then draw a little closer to your God the while you dream. + When the world is dressed to cheer you + Don't you feel Him standin' near you? + When your soul drinks in the beauty of the wonders in His plan, + An' you've put away your passions, + Don't you think the works He fashions + In their beauty an' their bigness mock the littleness of man? + + Oh, I never walk an orchard nor a field with daisies strewn, + An' I never stand bare-headed gazin' everywhere about + At the living joys around me, be it morning, night or noon, + But I ask God to forgive me that I ever held a doubt. + Surely men must walk in blindness, + With the whole world tuned to kindness, + An' all dumb an' feathered creatures fairly bubblin' o'er with glee + To devote themselves to madness + That can only end in sadness + An' to think that they are being what God put them here to be. + + + + The Chaplain + + + He was just a small church parson when the war broke out, and he + Looked and dressed and acted like all parsons that we see. + He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked his vest behind, + But he had a man's religion and he had a strong man's mind, + And he heard the call to duty, and he quit his church and went, + And he bravely tramped right with 'em everywhere the boys were sent. + + He put aside his broadcloth and he put the khaki on; + Said he'd come to be a soldier and was going to live like one. + Then he refereed the prize fights that the boys pulled off at night, + And if no one else was handy he'd put on the gloves and fight. + He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the soldiers' needs, + And he said: "I'm done with preaching; this is now the time for deeds." + + He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell the size of shell + From the shriek it make above him, and he knew just where it fell. + In the front line trench he labored, and he knew the feel of mud, + And he didn't run from danger and he wasn't scared of blood. + He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered them with his jokes, + And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes. + + Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt beside a lad + Who was "going west" right speedy, and they both seemed mighty glad, + 'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he smiled and whispered low, + "Now you needn't fear the journey; over there with you I'll go." + And they both passed out together, arm in arm I think they went. + He had kept his vow to follow everywhere the boys were sent. + + + + My Part + + + I may never be a hero, I am past the limit now, + There are pencil marks of silver Time has left upon my brow; + I shall win no service medals, I shall hear no cannons' roar, + I shall never fight a battle higher up than eagles soar, + But I hope my children's children may recall my name with pride + As a man who never whimpered when his soul was being tried. + + For the fighting and the dying for the everlasting truth + Are the labors designated for the strongest of our youth, + And the man that's nearing forty isn't asked to march away, + For there is no place in battle for the head that's turning gray. + His test is one of patience till the bitter work is done, + He must back his country's leaders till the victory is won. + + When this bitter time is ended I don't want to have it said + That I faltered in my courage and I never looked ahead, + I don't want it told I added to the burdens and the woe, + By preaching dismal doctrines that were cheering to the foe; + I want my children's children to respect me and to find + That my soul was out there fighting, though my body stayed behind. + + When this cruel test is over and the boys come back from France + I'd not have them say I hindered for a moment their advance; + That they found their duty harder than 'twas needful it should be + Because of the complaining of a lot of men like me. + Though I'll win no hero's medals and deserve no wild applause, + I want to be of service, not a hindrance to the cause. + + + + The Call + + + Some will heed the call to arms, + But all must heed the call to grit; + The dreamers on the distant farms + Must rally now to do their bit. + The whirring lathes in factories great + Will sing the martial songs of strife; + Upon the emery wheel of fate + We're grinding now the nation's life. + + The call is not alone to guns, + This is not but a battle test; + The world has summoned free men's sons + In every field to do their best. + The call has come to every man + To reach the summit of his powers; + To stand to service where he can; + A mighty duty now is ours. + + We must be stalwarts in the field + Where peace has always kept her throne, + No door against the need is sealed, + No man to-day can live alone. + The young apprentice at the bench, + The wise inventor, old and gray, + Serve with the soldier in the trench, + All warriors for the better day. + + Oh, man of science, unto you + The call for service now has come! + Mechanic, banker, lawyer, too, + Have you not heard the stirring drum? + Oh, humble digger in the ditch, + Bend to your spade and do your best, + And prove America is rich + In manhood fine for every test. + + Each man beneath the starry flag + Must live his noblest through the strife + If tyranny is not to drag + Into the mire the best of life. + Though some will wear our uniform, + We face to-day a common fate + And all must bravely breast the storm + And heed the call for courage great. + + + + Thanksgiving + + + For strength to face the battle's might, + For men that dare to die for right, + For hearts above the lure of gold + And fortune's soft and pleasant way, + For courage of our days of old, + Great God of All, we kneel and pray. + + We thank Thee for our splendid youth. + Who fight for liberty and truth, + Within whose breasts there glows anew + The glory of the altar fires + Which our heroic fathers knew-- + God make them worthy of their sires! + + We thank Thee for our mothers fair + Who through the sorrows they must bear + Still smile, and give their hearts to woe, + Yet bravely heed the day's command-- + That mothers, yet to be, may know + A free and glorious motherland. + + Oh, God, we thank Thee for the skies + Where our flag now in glory flies! + We thank Thee that no love of gain + Is leading us, but that we fight + To keep our banner free from stain + And that we die for what is right. + + Oh, God, we thank Thee that we may + Lift up our eyes to Thee to-day; + We thank Thee we can face this test + With honor and a spotless name, + And that we serve a world distressed + Unselfishly and free from shame. + + + + A Patriotic Wish + + + I'd like to be the sort of man the flag could boast about; + I'd like to be the sort of man it cannot live without; + I'd like to be the type of man + That really is American: + The head-erect and shoulders-square, + Clean-minded fellow, just and fair, + That all men picture when they see + The glorious banner of the free. + + I'd like to be the sort of man the flag now typifies, + The kind of man we really want the flag to symbolize; + The loyal brother to a trust, + The big, unselfish soul and just, + The friend of every man oppressed, + The strong support of all that's best-- + The sturdy chap the banner's meant, + Where'er it flies, to represent. + + I'd like to be the sort of man the flag's supposed to mean, + The man that all in fancy see, wherever it is seen; + The chap that's ready for a fight + Whenever there's a wrong to right, + The friend in every time of need, + The doer of the daring deed, + The clean and generous handed man + That is a real American. + + + + A Patriot + + + It's funny when a feller wants to do his little bit, + And wants to wear a uniform and lug a soldier's kit, + And ain't afraid of submarines nor mines that fill the sea, + They will not let him go along to fight for liberty + They make him stay at home and be his mother's darling pet, + But you can bet there'll come a time when they will want me yet. + + I want to serve the Stars and Stripes, I want to go and fight, + I want to lick the Kaiser good, and do the job up right. + I know the way to use _a_ gun and I can dig a trench + And I would like to go and help the English and the French. + But no, they say, you cannot march away to stirring drums; + Be mother's angel boy at home; stay there and twirl your thumbs. + + I've read about the daring boys that fight up in the sky; + It seems to me that that must be a splendid way to die. + I'd like to drive an aeroplane and prove my courage grim + And get above a German there and drop a bomb on him, + But they won't let me go along to help the latest drive; + They say my mother needs me here because I'm only five. + + + + Memorial Day + + + The finest tribute we can pay + Unto our hero dead to-day, + Is not a rose wreath, white and red, + In memory of the blood they shed; + It is to stand beside each mound, + Each couch of consecrated ground, + And pledge ourselves as warriors true + Unto the work they died to do. + + Into God's valleys where they lie + At rest, beneath the open sky, + Triumphant now, o'er every foe, + As living tributes let us go. + No wreath of rose or immortelles + Or spoken word or tolling bells + Will do to-day, unless we give + Our pledge that liberty shall live. + + Our hearts must be the roses red + We place above our hero dead; + To-day beside their graves we must + Renew allegiance to their trust; + Must bare our heads and humbly say + We hold the Flag as dear as they, + And stand, as once they stood, to die + To keep the Stars and Stripes on high. + + The finest tribute we can pay + Unto our hero dead to-day + Is not of speech or roses red, + But living, throbbing hearts instead + That shall renew the pledge they sealed + With death upon the battlefield: + That freedom's flag shall bear no stain + And free men wear no tyrant's chain. + + + + The Soldier on Crutches + + + He came down the stairs on the laughter-filled grill + Where patriots were eating and drinking their fill, + The tap of his crutch on the marble of white + Caught my ear as I sat all alone there that night. + I turned--and a soldier my eyes fell upon, + He had fought for his country, and one leg was gone! + + As he entered a silence fell over the place; + Every eye in the room was turned up to his face. + His head was up high and his eyes seemed aflame + With a wonderful light, and he laughed as he came. + He was young--not yet thirty--yet never he made + One sign of regret for the price he had paid. + + One moment before this young soldier came in + I had caught bits of speech in the clatter and din + From the fine men about me in life's dress parade + Who were boasting the cash sacrifices they'd made; + And I'd thought of my own paltry service with pride, + When I turned and that hero of battle I spied. + + I shall never forget the hot flushes of shame + That rushed to my cheeks as that young fellow came. + He was cheerful and smiling and clear-eyed and fine + And out of his face golden light seemed to shine. + And I thought as he passed me on crutches: + "How small + Are the gifts that I make if I don't give my all." + + Some day in the future in many a place + More soldiers just like him we'll all have to face. + We must sit with them, talk with them, laugh with them, too, + With the signs of their service forever in view + And this was my thought as I looked at him then + --Oh, God! make me worthy to stand with such men. + + + + The Friendly Greeting + + + Oh, we have friends in England, and we have friends in France, + And should we have to travel there through some strange circumstance, + Undaunted we should sail away, and gladly should we go, + Because awaiting us would be somebody that we know. + + Full many a journey here we make where countless strangers roam, + Yet everywhere our faces turn we find a friend from home. + Oh, we have friends in distant towns, and friends 'neath foreign skies, + And yet we think of him as lost whene'er a loved one dies. + + Yet he has merely traveled on, as many a friend must do; + Within a distant city fair he waits for me and you, + And when shall come our time to make that journey through the gloam, + To welcome us he will be there, the smiling friend from home. + + + + We Need a Few More Optimists + + + We need a few more optimists, + The kind that double up their fists + And set their jaws, determined-like, + A blow at infamy to strike. + Not smiling men, who drift along + And compromise with every wrong; + Not grinning optimists who cry + That right was never born to die, + But optimists who'll fight to give + The truth an honest chance to live. + + We need a few more optimists + For places in our fighting lists, + The kind of hopeful men who make + Real sacrifice for freedom's sake; + The optimist, with purpose strong, + Who stands to battle every wrong, + Takes off his coat, and buckles in + The better joys of earth to win! + The optimist who worries lest + The vile should overthrow the best. + + We need a few more optimists, + The brave of heart that long resists + The force of Hate and Greed and lust + And keeps in God and man his trust, + Believing, as he makes his fight + That everything will end all right-- + Yet through the dreary days and nights + Unfalteringly serves and fights, + And helps to gain the joys which he + Believes are some day sure to be. + + We need a few more optimists + Of iron hearts and sturdy wrists; + Not optimists who smugly smile + And preach that in a little while + The clouds will fade before the sun, + But cheerful men who'll bear a gun, + And hopeful men, of courage stout, + Who'll see disaster round about + And yet will keep their faith, and fight, + And gain the victory for right. + + + + Taking His Place + + + He's doing double duty now; + Time's silver gleams upon his brow, + And there are lines upon his face + Which only passing years can trace. + And yet he's turned back many a page + Long written in the book of age, + For since their boy has marched away, + This kindly father, growing gray, + Is doing for the mother true + The many things the boy would do. + + Just as the son came home each night + With youthful step and eyes alight, + So he returns, and with a shout + Of greeting puts her grief to rout. + He says that she shall never miss + The pleasure of that evening kiss, + And with strong arms and manner brave + He simulates the hug _he_ gave, + And loves her, when the day is done, + Both as a husband and a son. + + His laugh has caught a clearer ring; + His step has claimed the old-time swing, + And though _his_ absence hurts him, too, + The bravest thing that he can do + Is just to try to take _his_ place + And keep the smiles on mother's face. + So, merrily he jests at night-- + Tells her with all a boy's delight + Of what has happened in the town, + And thus keeps melancholy down. + + Her letters breathe of hope and cheer; + No note of gloom she sends from here, + And as her husband reads at night + The many messages she writes, + He chuckles o'er the closing line. + She's failed his secret to divine-- + "When you get home," she tells the lad, + "You'll scarcely know your doting dad; + Although his hair is turning gray, + He seems more like a boy each day." + + + + Christmas, 1918 + + + They give their all, this Christmastide, that peace on earth shall reign; + Upon the snows of Flanders now, brave blood has left its stain; + With ribbons red we deck our gifts; theirs bear the red of pain. + + They give their lives that joy shall live and little children play; + They pass that all that makes for peace shall not be swept away; + They die that children yet unborn shall have their Christmas Day. + + Come! deck the home with holly wreaths and make this Christmas glow, + And let Old Glory wave above the bough of mistletoe! + Come! keep alive the faith of them who sleep 'neath Flanders snow. + + Ye brave of heart who dwell at home, make merry now a-while; + The world has need of Christmas cheer its sorrows to beguile; + And blest is he whose love can light grief's corners with a smile. + + Ring out once more, sweet Christmas bells, your message to the sky, + Proclaim in golden tones again to every passer-by + That peace shall rule the lands of earth, and only war shall die. + + Let love's sweet tenderness relieve war's cruel crimson clutch, + Send forth the Christmas spirit, every troubled heart to touch; + Blest will be all we do for them who do for us so much. + + + + The New Year + + + Come you with dangers to fright us? or hazards + to try out our souls? + Then may you find us undaunted; determined to + get to our goals. + Now, white are the pages you bring us to fill + with the tales of our deeds, + And I pray we shall square at the finish the work + of our lives with our creeds. + + Oh, child of a year, do you wonder what here + upon earth you shall find? + America shows you a people united in purpose + and mind; + Whatever you bring us of danger, whatever you + hold to affright, + I pray that we never shall lower our standards + of truth and of right. + + You find us a people united, full pledged to the + work of the world, + To banish the despot and tyrant, our banner in + battle's unfurled; + And here to a world that is bleeding and weary + and heartsick you come, + Whatever you've brought us of duty--we'll + answer the call of your drum. + + We may weep in our grief and our sorrows, we + may bend 'neath the might of the blow, + But never our courage shall falter, and never + we'll run from the foe. + We know not how troubled our pathways shall + be nor how sorely beset, + But I pray we shall cling to our honor as men + and never our purpose forget. + + + + Our Duty to Our Flag + + + Less hate and greed + Is what we need + And more of service true; + More men to love + The flag above + And keep it first in view. + + Less boast and brag + About the flag, + More faith in what it means; + More heads erect, + More self-respect, + Less talk of war machines. + + The time to fight + To keep it bright + Is not along the way, + Nor 'cross the foam, + But here at home + Within ourselves--to-day. + + 'Tis we must love + That flag above + With all our might and main; + For from our hands-- + Not distant lands-- + Shall come dishonor's stain. + + If that flag be + Dishonored, we + Have done it---not the foe; + If it shall fall, + We, first of all, + Shall have to strike the blow. + + + + The Unsettled Scores + + + The men are talking peace at 'ome, but 'ere we're talking fight, + There's many a little debt we've got to square; + A sniper sent a bullet through my bunkie's 'ead last night, + And 'is body's lying somewhere h'over there. + + Oh, we 'ear a lot of rumors that the war is h'almost through + But Hi'm thinking that it's only arf begun; + Every soldier in the trenches has a little debt that's due + And Hi'm telling you it's not a money one. + + We 'ave 'eard the bullets whistle and we've 'card the shrapnel sing + And we've listened to a dying comrade's pleas, + And we've 'eard about the comfort that the days of peace will bring, + But we've debts that can't be settled h'over seas. + + They that 'aven't slept in trenches, 'aven't brothered with the worms, + 'Aven't 'ad a bunkie slaughtered at their side, + May some day get together and arrange some sort of terms, + But it isn't likely we'll be satisfied. + + There are debts we want to settle, 'and to 'and, and face to face, + There are one or two Hi've promised that Hi'd square; + And Hi cannot 'old my 'ead up, 'ere or in the other place, + Till Hi've settled for my bunkie, lying there. + + + + Warriors + + + We all are warriors with sin. Crusading knights, + we come to earth + With spotless plumes and shining shields to joust + with foes and prove our worth. + The world is but a battlefield where strong and + weak men fill the lists, + And some make war with humble prayers, and + some with swords and some with fists. + And some for pleasure or for peace forsake their + purposes and goals + And barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp, + their knightly souls. + + We're all enlisted soldiers here, in service for + the term called life + And each of us in some grim way must bear his + portion of the strife. + Temptations everywhere assail. Men do not rise + by fearing sin, + Nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed, + unscratched, the crown shall win. + When wrongs are trampling mortals down and + rank injustice stalks about, + Real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or puts + the foes to rout. + + 'Tis not the new and shining blade that marks + the soldier of the field, + His glory is his broken sword, his pride the + scars upon his shield; + The crimson stains that sin has left upon his + soul are tongues that speak + The victory of new found strength by one who + yesterday was weak. + And meaningless the spotless plume, the shining + blade that goes through life + And quits this naming battlefield without one + evidence of strife. + + We all are warriors with sin, we all are knights + in life's crusades, + And with some form of tyranny, we're sent to + earth to measure blades. + The courage of the soul must gleam in conflict + with some fearful foe, + No man was ever born to life its luxuries alone + to know. + And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward + garb unsoiled + And fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his + soul decayed and spoiled. + + + + Easy Service + + + When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye + Or a legless form I see, + I breathe my thanks to my God on High + For His watchful care o'er me. + And I say to myself, as the cripple goes + Half stumbling on his way: + I may brag and boast, but that brother knows + Why the old flag floats to-day. + + I think as I sit in my cozy den + Puffing one of my many pipes + That I've served with all of my fellow men + The glorious Stars and Stripes. + Then I see a troop in the faded blue + And a few in the dusty gray, + And I have to laugh at the deeds I do + For the flag that floats to-day. + + I see men tangled in pointed wire, + The sport of the blazing sun, + Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire + As the tides of battle run, + And I fancy I hear their piteous calls + For merciful death, and then + The cannons cease and the darkness falls, + And those fluttering things are men. + + Out there in the night they beg for death, + Yet the Reaper spurns their cries, + And it seems his jest to leave them breath + For their pitiful pleas and sighs. + And I am here in my cozy room + In touch with the joys of life, + I am miles away from the fields of doom + And the gory scenes of strife. + + I never have vainly called for aid, + Nor suffered real pangs of thirst, + I have marched with life in its best parade + And never have seen its worst. + In the flowers of ease I have ever basked, + And I think as the Flag I see + How much of service from some it's asked, + How little of toil from me. + + + + A Father's Thoughts + + + Because I am his father, they + Expect me to put grief away; + Because I am a man, and rough + And sometimes short of speech and gruff, + The women folks at home believe + His absence doesn't make me grieve; + But how I felt, they little know, + The day I smiled and let him go. + + They little know the dreams I had + Long cherished for my sturdy lad; + They little guess the wrench it meant + That day when off to war he went; + They little know the tears I checked + While standing, smiling and erect; + They never heard my smothered sigh + When it was time to say good-bye. + + "What does his father think and say?" + The neighbors ask from day to day. + "Oh, he's a man," they answer then. + "And you know how it is with men. + But little do they ever say, + They do not feel the self-same way; + He seems indifferent and grim + And yet he's very proud of him." + + Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart, + Be brave enough to play the part, + Let not the grief in you be shown, + Keep all your loneliness unknown, + To you the women folks must turn + For comfort when their sorrows burn. + You must not at this time reveal + The pain and anguish that you feel. + + Oh, tongue, be silent through the years, + And eyes, keep back always the tears, + And let them never see or know + My hidden weight of grief and woe. + Though every golden dream I had + Was centered in my little lad, + Alone my sorrow I must bear. + They must not know how much I care. + + Though women folks may talk and weep, + A man, unseen, his grief must keep, + And hide behind his smile and pride + The loneliness that dwells inside. + And so, from day to day, I go, + Playing the part of man, although + Beneath the rough outside and grim, + I think and dream and pray for him. + + + + The Waiter at the Camp + + + The officers' friend is the waiter at camp. + In the night air 'twas cold and was bitterly damp, + And they asked me to dine, which I readily did, + For at dining I've talents I never keep hid. + Then a bright-eyed young fellow came in with the meat, + And straightway the troop of us started to eat. + + I silently noticed that young fellow wait + At each officer's side 'til he'd filled up his plate; + I was startled a bit at the very first look + By the size of the helping each officer took, + And I thought as I sat there among them that night + Of the army's effect on a man's appetite. + + The waiter at last brought the platter to me + And modestly proper I started to be. + A small piece of meat then I gracefully took; + The young fellow stood there and gave me a look. + "Better get all you want," he remarked to me then, + "I pass this way once, but I don't come again." + + I turned in amazement. He nodded his head + In a way that convinced me he meant what he said. + I knew from his manner and smile on his lip + That the rule in the army is "no second trip." + And I thought as he left me my food to attack, + Life gives us one chance, but it never comes back. + + + + The Complacent Slacker + + + When he was just a lad in school, + He used to sit around and fool + And watch the clock and say: + "I can't see that I'll ever need + This stuff the teacher makes me read, + I'll work no more to-day. + And anyhow it's almost June + And school days will be over soon." + + One time we played a baseball game, + And when a chance for stealing came, + On second base he stood, + And when we asked him why, he said: + "What was the use, they're far ahead, + One run would do no good. + The game is almost over now, + We couldn't win it anyhow." + + The same old slacker still is he, + With men at war on land and sea, + And our lads plunging in it; + He spreads afar his old excuse. + "I'd like to help, but what's the use, + The Allied troops will win it. + There's nothing now to make us fret, there, + They'll have it won before we get there." + + The worst of slackers is the man + Who will not help whene'er he can, + But plays the idle rover, + And tells to all beset with doubt + There's naught to be alarmed about, + The storm will soon be over. + Let no such dangerous person lead us, + To-day in France they sadly need us. + + + + A Christmas Greeting + + + Here's to you, little mother, + With your boy so far away; + May the joy of service smother + All your grief this Christmas day; + May the magic of his splendor + Thrill your spirit through and through + And may all that's fine and tender + Make a smiling day for you. + + May you never know the sadness + That from day to day you dread; + May you never find but gladness + In the Flag that's overhead; + May the good God watch above him + As he stands to duty stern, + And at last to all who love him + May he have a safe return. + + Little mother, take the blessing + Of a grateful nation's heart; + May the news that is distressing + Never cause your tears to start; + May there be no fears to haunt you, + And no lonely hours and sad; + May your trials never daunt you, + But may every day be glad. + + Little Mother, could I do it, + This my Christmas gift would be: + That he'd safely battle through it, + This to you I'd guarantee. + And I'd pledge to you this morning + Joys to banish all your cares, + Gifts of gold and silver scorning, + I would answer all your prayers. + + + + Ideals + + + Better than land or gold or trade + Are a high ideal and a purpose true; + Better than all of the wealth we've made + Is the work for others that now we do. + For Rome grew rich and she turned to song + And danced to music and drank her wine, + But she sapped the strength of her fibres strong + And a gilded shroud was her splendor fine. + + The Rome of old with its wealth and wine + Was the handiwork of a sturdy race; + They builded well and they made it fine + And they dreamed of it as their children's place. + They thought the joys they had won to give, + And which seemed so certain and fixed and sure, + To the end of time in the world would live + And the Rome they'd fashioned would long endure. + + They passed to their children the hoarded gold, + Their marble halls and their fertile fields! + But not the spirit of Rome of old, + Nor the Roman courage that never yields. + They left them the wealth that their hands had won, + But they failed to leave them a purpose true. + They left them thinking life's work all done, + And Rome went down and was lost to view. + + We must guard ourselves lest we follow Rome. + We must leave our children the finer things. + We must teach them love of the spot called home + And the lasting joy that a purpose brings. + For vain are our Flag and our battles won, + And vain are our lands and our stores of gold, + If our children feel that life's work is done. + We must give them a high ideal to hold. + + + + Rebellion + + + "My Crown Prince was fine and fair," a sorrowful + father said, + "But he marched away with his regiment and + they tell me that he's dead! + 'We all must go,' he whispered low, 'We must + fight for the Fatherland.' + Now the heart of me's torn with the grief I + know, and I cannot understand, + For none of the Kaiser's princes lie out there + where my soldier sleeps; + Here's a land where grief is the common lot, but + never the Kaiser weeps. + + "My Crown Prince was a kindly prince, and his + eyes were gentle, too, + And glad were the days of his youth to me when + his wonderful smile I knew. + Then the Kaiser flattered and spoke him well, + and he sent him out to die, + But his Crown Prince hasn't felt one hurt and + the heart of me questions why? + He talks of war in his regal way and he boasts + of his strength to strike, + But his boys all live and he doesn't know what + the sting of a bullet's like. + + "Rebellion gnaws at the soul of me as I think + of his Crown Prince gay, + And my Prince cold in the arms of death, and + harsh are the things I say. + I join with the grief-torn muttering men who + challenge the Kaiser's right + To build his joys on the graves of ours. We + shall rise in our wrath to smite! + And this is the thing we shall ask of him: to + give us the reason why + Our boys must fall on his battlefields, but never + his boys must die?" + + + + Drafted + + + The biggest moment in our lives was that when first he cried, + From that day unto this, for him, we've struggled side by side. + We can recount his daily deeds, and backwards we can look, + And proudly live again the time when first a step he took. + + I see him trudging off to school, his mother at his side, + And when she left him there alone she hurried home and cried. + And then the sturdy chap of eight that was, I proudly see, + Who packed a little grip and took a fishing trip with me. + + Among the lists of boys to go his name has now appeared; + To us has come the sacrifice that mothers all have feared; + And though we dread the parting hour when he shall march away, + We love him and the Flag too much to ask of him to stay. + + His baby ways shall march with him, and every joy we've had, + Somewhere in France some day shall be a little brown-eyed lad; + A toddler and a child at school, the chum that once I knew + Shall wear our country's uniform, for they've been drafted, too. + + + + Reflection + + + You have given me riches and ease, + You have given me joys through the years, + I have sat in the shade of your trees, + With the song of your birds in my ears. + I have drunk of your bountiful wine + And done as I've chosen to do, + But, oh wonderful country of mine, + 'How little have I done for you! + + You have given me safe harbor from harm, + Untroubled I've slept through the nights + And have waked to the new morning's charm + And claimed as my own its delights. + I have taken the finest of fine + From your orchards and fields where it grew, + But, oh wonderful country of mine, + How little I've given to you! + + You have given me a home and a place + Where in safety my babies may play; + Health blooms on each bright dimpled face + And laughter is theirs every day. + You have guarded from danger the shrine + Where I worship when toiling is through, + But, oh wonderful country of mine, + How little have I done for you! + + I have taken your gifts without thought, + I have reveled in joys that you gave, + That I see now with blood had been bought, + The blood of your earlier braves. + I have lived without making one sign + That the source of my riches I knew, + Now, oh wonderful country of mine, + I'm here to do something for you! + + + + A Wish + + + God grant my children may + Not think in terms of gold + When I have passed away + And my poor form is cold. + When I no more shall be, + If of me they would brag, + I'd have them speak of me + As one who loved the Flag. + + God grant my children may + Not speak of me as one + Who trod a selfish way, + When I am dead and gone. + When they recall my name + I'd have them tell that I + Held dear my Country's fame + And kept her standards high. + + Not for the things I gave + Would I be counted kind; + When I am in my grave, + If they my worth would find, + I'd have them read it there + In red and white and blue + And stars of radiance rare! + And say that I was true. + + + + Living + + + If through the years we're not to do + Much finer deeds than we have done; + If we must merely wander through + Time's garden, idling in the sun; + If there is nothing big ahead, + Why do we fear to join the dead? + + Unless to-morrow means that we + Shall do some needed service here; + That tasks are waiting you and me + That will be lost, save we appear; + Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow + That we may never see to-morrow? + + If all our finest deeds are done, + And all our splendor's in the past; + If there's no battle to be won, + What matter if to-day's our last? + Is life so sweet that we would live + Though nothing back to life we give? + + Not to have lived through seventy years + Is greatness. Fitter to be sung + In poet's praises and in cheers + Is he who dies in action, young; + Who ventures all for one great deed + And gives his life to serve life's need. + + + + Life's Slacker + + + The saddest sort of death to die + Would be to quit the game called life + And know, beneath the gentle sky, + You'd lived a slacker in the strife. + That nothing men on earth would find + To mark the spot that you had filled; + That you must go and leave behind + No patch of soil your hands had tilled. + + I know no greater shame than this: + To feel that yours were empty years; + That after death no man would miss + Your presence in this vale of tears; + That you had breathed the fragrant air + And sat by kindly fires that burn, + And in earth's riches had a share + But gave no labor in return. + + Yet some men die this way, nor care: + They enter and they leave life's door + And at the end, their record's bare-- + The world's no better than before. + A few false tears are shed, and then, + In busy service, they're forgot. + We have no time to mourn for men + Who lived on earth but served it not. + + A man in perfect peace to die + Must leave some mark of toil behind, + Some building towering to the sky, + Some symbol that his heart was kind, + Some roadway where strange feet may tread + That out of gratitude he made; + He cannot bravely look ahead + Unless his debt to life is paid. + + + + The Proof of Worth + + + Though victory's proof of the skill you possess, + Defeat is the proof of your grit; + A weakling can smile in his days of success, + But at trouble's first sign he will quit. + So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck + Isn't skies that are sunny and fair, + But how do you stand to the blow that is struck + And how do you battle despair? + + A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear + And it's easy to see the way out, + But the test of man's judgment is something to fear, + And what does he do when in doubt? + And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows + When sorrows lie deep in his breast; + It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows + That brings out his worst or his best. + + The test of a man is how much he will bear + For a cause which he knows to be right, + How long will he stand in the depths of despair, + How much will he suffer and fight? + There are many to serve when the victory's near + And few are the hurts to be borne, + But it calls for a leader of courage to cheer + The men in a battle forlorn. + + It's the way you hold out against odds that are great + That proves what your courage is worth, + It's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate + That shows up your stature and girth. + And victory's nothing but proof of your skill, + Veneered with a glory that's thin, + Unless it is proof of unfaltering will, + And unless you have suffered to win. + + + + Follow a Famous Father + + + I follow a famous father, + His honor is mine to wear; + He gave me a name that was free from shame, + A name he was proud to bear. + He lived in the morning sunlight, + And marched in the ranks of right. + He was always true to the best he knew + And the shield that he wore was bright. + + I follow a famous father, + And never a day goes by + But I feel that he looks down to me + To carry his standard high. + He stood to the sternest trials + As only a brave man can; + Though the way be long, I must never wrong + The name of so good a man. + + I follow a famous father, + Not known to the printed page, + Nor written down in the world's renown + As a prince of his little age. + But never a stain attached to him + And never he stooped to shame; + He was bold and brave and to me he gave + The pride of an honest name. + + I follow a famous father, + And him I must keep in mind; + Though his form is gone, I must carry on + The name that he left behind. + It was mine on the day he gave it, + It shone as a monarch's crown, + And as fair to see as it came to me + It must be when I pass it down. + + + + The Important Thing + + + He was playing in the garden when we called him in for tea, + But he didn't seem to hear us, so I went out there to see + What the little rogue was up to, and I stooped and asked him why, + When he heard his mother calling, he had made her no reply. + "I am playing war," he told me, "and I'm up against defeat, + And until I stop the Germans I can't take the time to eat." + + "Isn't supper so important that you'll quit your round of play? + Don't you want to eat the shortcake mother made for you to-day?" + Then I asked him, but he answered as he shook his little head: + "I don't dare to stop for shortcake, if I do they'll kill me dead! + When I drive them from their trenches, then to supper I'll come in, + But I mustn't stop a minute, 'cause this war I've got to win." + + I left him in his battle, left him there to end his play, + For he'd taught to me a lesson that is needed much to-day; + Not the lure of cake could turn him from the work he had to do; + There was nothing so important as to see his struggle through. + And I wondered all that evening, as he slumbered in his bed + If we'd risen to the meaning of the work that lies ahead? + + Are we roused to the importance of the danger in our way? + Are we thinking still of pleasures as we thought but yesterday? + Are our comforts and our riches in our minds still uppermost? + Must we wait, to see our danger, till the foe is on our coast? + Oh, there's nothing so important, nothing now that's worth a pin + Save the war that we are fighting. It's a war we've got to win. + + + + Selfishness + + + Search history, my boy, and see + What petty selfishness has done. + Find if you can one victory + That little minds have ever won. + There is no record there to read + Of men who fought for self alone, + No instance of a single deed + splendor they may proudly own. + + Through all life's story you will find + The miser--with his hoarded gold-- + A hermit, dreary and unkind, + An outcast from the human fold. + Men hold him up to view with scorn, + A creature by his wealth enslaved, + A spirit craven and forlorn, + Doomed by the money he has saved. + + No man was ever truly great + Who sought to serve himself alone, + Who put himself above the state, + Above the friends about him thrown. + No man was ever truly glad + Who risked his joy on hoarded pelf, + And gave of nothing that he had + Through fear of needing it himself. + + For selfishness is wintry cold, + And bitter are its joys at last, + The very charms it tries to hold, + With woes are quickly overcast. + And only he shall gladly live, + And bravely die when God shall call, + Who gathers but that he may give, + And with his fellows shares his all. + + + + Constant Beauty + + + It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, + It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. + It's good that we can feel again, the touch of beauties real again, + For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold. + + The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the peonies stranged a bit, + They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. + The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day + And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man. + + But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again + And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; + And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again + And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day. + + Oh, we have changed from what we were, we're not the carefree lot we were, + Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, + But it is good to see once more the budding lilac tree once more, + And find the constant roses here to comfort us again. + + + + When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat + + + When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do? + Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through. + When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn? + Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our + land return. + + When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree? + Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea. + When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way? + Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play. + + Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn; + And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one's return. + We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made + giving sweet, + But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat. + + We shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way, + For this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war to-day; + And the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives + defend, + And they shall give us our Christmas time as soon as the war shall end. + + + + Prophecy + + + We shall thank our God for graces + That we've never known before; + We shall look on manlier faces + When our troubled days are o'er. + We shall rise a better nation + From the battle's grief and grime, + And shall win our soul's salvation + In this bitter trial time. + And the old Flag waving o'er us + In the dancing morning sun + Will be daily singing for us + Of a splendor new begun. + + When the rifles cease to rattle + And the cannon cease to roar, + When is passed the smoke of battle + And the death lists are no more, + With a yet undreamed of beauty + As a people we shall rise, + And a love of right and duty + Shall be gleaming in our eyes. + As a country, tried by sorrow, + With a heritage of worth, + We shall stand in that to-morrow + With the leaders of the earth. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER HERE*** + + +******* This file should be named 16632.txt or 16632.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/3/16632 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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