October, 1915
The cause of Freedom needs our help,
The Old Land's in the fray,
It's up to every lion's whelp
To either fight or pay.
The bloody Turk and savage Hun
Still ravish, burn and slay,
Each loyal son must man a gun,
Or stay at home and pay.
Our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives,
They nurse, and knit, and pray,
Let men forego their selfish lives,
And either fight or pay.
The call is clear to sacrifice
Our life, our purse, our play;
Ere Honor dies, let us arise
And either fight or pay.
"England expects from every man
His duty on this day."
'Twas thus Lord Nelson's message ran
Ere he began the fray.
Shall we our noble heritage,
See crumbling down like clay,
This goodly age, a blotted page,
And neither fight nor pay?
Nay! While our British blood runs red,
Let those refuse who may,
We'll heed what mighty Nelson said
On old Trafalgar day,
From cottage, castle, palace, hall,
We'll come without delay,
At duty's call, and stake our all,
To fight, or pay, or pray.
Rhymes For Children
HUNTING THE WERE-WOLF
The jungle law is broken;
From forest, field and plain,
The beasts and birds have spoken,
"The traitor must be slain,"
The surly bear comes growling,
From out his lonesome den;
He hears the were-wolf howling,
Athirst for blood of men.
The fierce war eagle screeches
Across the Channel deep,
His scream the lion reaches
And rouses him from sleep;
The busy beaver hiding
In far off northern wood,
The mighty bull moose, striding
In stately solitude.
The humpy, bumpy cattle,
The tiger from his lair,
Go down into the battle
Beside the timid hare.
The elephant and camel,
The ostrich and emu,
Weird things, both bird and mammal,
And old man Kangaroo.
All vow, by fur and feather,
Each with one purpose filled,
To work and fight together,
Until the were-wolf's killed.
Meanwhile in war's arena,
Unmoved by tears and groans,
The buzzard and hyena
Pick clean the victim's bones.
JOHNNIE'S GROUCH
'Cause brother Ben has gone to fight
Across the sea so far,
I like to sit around at night
And read about the war,
But when I think me and my chums
Are fighting Fritz in France,
My ma asks if I've done my sums;
A feller gets no chance.
And when I'm marching proudly back
With fifty captured Huns,
My dad will say "retire Jack".
That's how they spike my guns.
My teacher's a conscriptionist,
She calls me "Johnnie dear,"
But backs it with an iron fist
And so I volunteer.
I got kept in at school one day
For lessons not half learned,
And when dad asked, "Why this delay?"
I said I'd been interned.
And when our test exams came out
And mine were extra bad,
I said, "We needn't fuss about
A scrap of paper, dad."
When sister's chap comes round at night,
And pa seems in a rage,
Ma only smiles; she knows all right,
It's just dad's camoflage.
And when I entertain this beau
While Sis puts on her dress,
Sometimes I get a dime, you know;
That's strategy, I guess.
My dad is getting rather stout,
And hates to mow the lawn;
But when he gets the mower out,
First thing he knows I'm gone;
But when I've trouble with my pa
No matter what it's for,
I make an ally of my ma,
And then I win the war.
THE TRENCH THAT FRITZ BUILT
This is the trench that Fritz built.
This is the Hun who lay in the trench that
Fritz built.
This is the gun that killed the Hun who lay
in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer's only son, who mans the
gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench
that Fritz built.
This is the farmer, weary and worn, who
raised the son, who mans the gun, that killed
the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz
built.
This is she, who in youth's bright morn,
was wed to the man, now weary and worn,
'tis she to whom the son was born, who in
front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still
mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in
the trench that Fritz built.
This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn,
who drives a car with a tooting horn, and
laughs at the farmer weary and worn, and his
wife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoes
and beets and corn, because the son, who
to them was born, is in front of the battle, all
tattered and torn, still manning the gun that
killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that
Fritz built.
This is the maid who treats with scorn the
shifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and his
shining car with the tooting horn, but honors
the farmer weary and worn, and his wife who
helps him hoe the corn, and milk the cows
in the early morn, for she loves the son who
to them was born, who in front of the battle
all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that
killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that
Fritz built!
Nursery Rhymes
Up-to-Date
TEN LITTLE SLACKERS
Ten little slackers standing in a line,
One went to U. S., then there were nine.
Nine little slackers out for a skate,
One broke his leg and then there were eight.
Eight little slackers playing odd and even,
Got in a mix up and then there were seven.
Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks,
One got dyspepsia, then there were six.
Six little slackers only half alive,
One got married and then there were five.
Five little slackers were such a bore
The fool killer got one, then there were four.
Four little slackers out on a spree,
Auto turned turtle, and then there were three.
Three little slackers in a canoe,
Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two.
Two little slackers, one was a Hun,
He got imprisoned, then there was one.
One little slacker, war nearly won,
He got conscripted, then there were none.
One little, two little, three little slackers,
Four little, five little, six little slackers,
Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers,
Ten little slacker men.
JINGLES
Jack Sprat can eat no fat,
His wife can eat no lean,
Because upon their platter now
No meat is ever seen.
Make a cake, make a cake, my good man,
Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran,
Tick it and pick it and mark it with B,
And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.
Little deeds and mortgages,
Little bonds and stocks,
Help amid financial storms
To keep us off the rocks.
Little loads of stove wood,
Little jags of coal,
Make our pocket books look sick,
And put us in the hole.
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating his whole wheat pie,
He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum,
And he said, I don't like this old pie.
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper,
What did he sing for? White bread and butter;
But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread,
With oleomargarine on it to spread.
Farmer Dingle had a little pig,
Not very little and not very big;
It weighed two hundred or a few pounds over
And brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover.
Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied,
And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried,
"Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he,
"They need," said he,
"Good feed," said she,
So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.
One little man went to battle,
One little man stayed at home,
One little man got white bread and butter,
One little man got none,
One little man cried see, see, see,
You'll eat brown bread
Till the war is done.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run,
"High cost of meat
I've got you beat,"
Said Tom, while making his retreat.
Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill,
And fought on land and water,
Till Nick fell down and lost his crown,
And Bill went tumbling after.
There was a crooked man
Who wore a crooked smile,
And built a crooked railroad
O'er many a crooked mile,
He got some crooked statesmen
To play his crooked games,
And they all got crooked titles
Before their crooked names.
Sing a song of sixpence,
Country going dry,
Four and twenty booze shops
Selling no more rye.
When the bars were open,
Whiskey had its fling,
Now we ride the water cart,
Along with George, our king.
Once dad, in the bar room,
Counted out his money,
Weary mother sat at home,
Patching clothes for sonny.
Now dad's in the garden
Wearing out his clothes,
Money in his pocket,
Bloom all off his nose.