“HEARTS ARE TOUCHING”
POEMS need not be rhymed, nor wrought in verses. This brave and touching one occurred in a letter written by a French schoolgirl:
“It was only a little river; almost a brook; it was called the Yser. One could talk from one side to the other without raising one’s voice, and the birds could fly over it with one sweep of their wings. And on the two banks there were millions of men, the one toward the other, eye to eye. But the distance which separated them was greater than the stars in the sky; it was the distance which separates right from injustice.
“The ocean is so vast that the sea gulls do not dare to cross it. During seven days and seven nights the great steamships of America, going at full speed, drive through the deep waters before the lighthouses of France come into view; but from one side to the other, hearts are touching.”
MEN OF THE BLOOD AND MIRE
DANIEL M. HENDERSON
in Everybody’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
WE whom the draft rejected;
We who stay by the stuff;
We who measure our manhood
And find that it isn’t enough;
We who are gray and burdened;
We whom the trades require—
Will you permit us to hail you,
Men of the Blood and Mire?
We of the thundering forum;
We of the pen and press;
We who are pouring our utmost
Into our land’s success;
We of the Cross and Triangle,
Lofty in deed and desire—
God, how we shrivel before you,
Men of the Blood and Mire!
Aye, we are square with conscience—
We are reservists all;
Aye, when your ranks are gaping,
We will fight where you fall;
Yet, while we wait, your altar
Flames in the gas and fire—
We are the shade of your glory,
Men of the Blood and Mire!
THE SONG OF THE DEAD
J. H. M. ABBOTT
in The London Outlook
Large numbers of Australian and New Zealand volunteers are already on the water bound for Vancouver, en route for Europe.—Paragraph of War News, 1915.
OH, Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you—
Land of yellow wattle bloom, land of smiling Spring—
Hearken to the after words, land of pleasant memories,
Shea-oaks of the shady creeks, hear the song we sing.
For we lie quietly, underneath the lonely hills,
Where the land is silent, where the guns have ceased to boom,
Here we are waiting, and shall wait for Eternity—
Here on the battle-fields, where we found our doom.
Spare not thy pity—Life is strong and fair for you—
City by the waterside, homestead on the plain.
Keep ye remembrance, keep ye a place for us—
So all the bitterness of dying be not vain.
Oh, be ye mindful, mindful of our honor’s name;
Oh, be ye careful of the word ye speak in jest—
For we have bled for you; for we have died for you—
Yea, we have given, we have given our best.
Life that we might have lived, love that we might have loved,
Sorrow of all sorrows, we have drunk thy bitter lees.
Speak thou a word to us, here in our narrow beds—
Word of thy mourning lands beyond the Seas.
Lo, we have paid the price, paid the cost of Victory.
Do not forget, when the rest shall homeward come—
Mother of our childhood, sister of our manhood days,
Loved of our heavy hearts, whom we have left alone.
Hark to the guns—pause and turn, and think of us—
Red was our life’s blood, and heavy was the cost.
But ye have Nationhood, but ye are a people strong—
Oh, have ye love for the brothers ye have lost?
Oh, by the blue skies, clear beyond the mountain tops,
Oh, by the dear, dun plains where we were bred,—
What be your tokens, tokens that ye grieve for us,
Tokens of your Sorrowing for we that be Dead?
THE REFUGEES
W. G. S.
in the London Spectator
PAST the marching men, where the great road runs,
Out of burning Ypres the pale women came:
One was a widow (listen to the guns!)—
She wheeled a heaped-up barrow. One walked lame
And dragged two little children at her side
Tired and coughing with the dust.
The third
Nestled a dead child on her breast and tried
To suckle him. They never spoke a word.
So they came down along the Ypres road.
A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass,
Turned and in silence helped them with their load,
And led them to a field and gave them bread.
I saw them hide their faces in the grass
And cry, as women might when Christ was dead.
SONG OF THE WINDS
MARY LANIER MAGRUDER
in The Saturday Evening Post
Permission to reproduce in this book
SONG of the west wind whispering—listen
The murmuring waves of the golden grain;
The lisp of rivers that ripple and glisten,
Filled to brim with the night’s wild rain,
Seaward going to come again,
Pouring the torrents of spring on the acres
Fallow and fertile. The wide world’s bread
Harvested now by the busy rakers,
Gleaners afield when the dawn is red;
Wind of the west, where the leaning sheaves
Darken the shadows as daylight leaves
Or heap the granary under the eaves,
Sing the song to us over and over,
Happy harvests and multifold,
Sweeter than breath of thyme or clover,
Western wind over sheaves of gold!
Wind of the south from the wide prairie,
Mesquite barren and cactus lean,
Where the fleet herds browse and the coyote wary
Pierces the night with a note too keen;
And the brown plain’s grass grows all between.
Fields where the wild sage blows and billows,
Purple waves on a sea of jade;
And the bending cottonwoods touch the willows,
And the water holes glimmer in light and shade.
Then swinging up from a land of drouth,
And on by the bayous flowing south,
There by the wandering river’s mouth,
White is the sod with the cotton blossom,
Whiter the lint that has broken its pod
And lies like snow on the sad earth’s bosom,
Fresh and fair from the hand of God.
Wind of the north from the long lakes sweeping
Down to the meadows and hills of corn,
Over the creeks where the perch are leaping,
And the mill wheels hum at the break of morn;
Hills where the clover is newly shorn;
And sharply pungent as old-world gorse is
The hay that the wagons have hurried home;
And under the steady feet of the horses
The furrows grow in the loose black loam.
And ever the amber tassels seize
The wings of every riotous breeze
To fling gonfalons of golden sleaze,
Silken and soft, to the earth’s far borders:
“August heat but hastens the days
When the hungry herds and the empty larders
Shall all be filled with the Indian’s maize.”
Wind of the east—ah, east wind blowing
Long, long leagues from a land o’erseas;
Empty hands that can know no sowing,
Passionate pleading hands are these—
Palms outstretched to us over the seas;
Ah, the heart of France is a thing to cherish!
But her werewolf, Hunger, cannot be slain
Till out of our largess, lest she perish,
We hasten the caravels of blessed grain.
Till the sea-shark’s teeth forever are drawn,
And the dread great guns are stilled at the dawn,
We must hold high courage and carry on.
So winds of the north, south, west, your treasure—
Corn and cattle and golden grain—
Shall crowd the ships to their fullest measure,
And the bread thus cast will return again!
“WHAT THINK YE?”
W. A. BRISCOE
in The United Empire Magazine
(Journal of the Royal Colonial Institute, London)
WHAT are we fighting for, men of my race,
And the best of us dying for?
For wealth—or profit—or power—or fame?
Or a statesman’s lust? or a monarch’s name?
Or for aught that our sons of sons could blame
Did we throw the dice of war?
Why are ye weeping, sisters of mine,
With a mien so proud and brave?
Do ye weep because of the utter woe?
Are ye proud because ye would have it so,
Though Fate should have dealt you the final blow
And there’s nothing to mark the grave?
What are we fighting for, women and men,
And the best of us dying for?
It was just because we had signed our name,
And the Briton’s creed is to honor the same:
It was only for that, and our own fair fame
We took up the gage of war.
THE MAN BEHIND
DOUGLAS MALLOCH
in The American Lumberman
Permission to reproduce in this book
THE band is on the quarter-deck, the starry flag unfurled;
The air is mad with music and with cheers.
The ship is bringing home to us the homage of the world
And writing new our name upon the years.
Her officer is on the bridge; we greet him with hurrahs;
But some one says, “Not he the glory won;
Not he alone who wears the braid, deserves the loud applause,
Oh, don’t forget the man behind the gun!”
’Tis said that to embattled seas our ship sailed forth at dawn,
Unheeding shot, unheeding hidden mine;
And through the thunders of the fight went steaming bravely on,
The nation’s floating fortress on the brine.
And never throbbing engine stopped, nor parted plate or seam
In all that bloody day from sun to sun;
The good ship sang her battle cry in hissing clouds of steam
To cheer anew the man behind the gun.
I look upon her shining bore, her engine’s pulsing heart,
I look upon her bulwarks shaped of steel;
I know there is another art, as great as gunner’s art,
That makes the world at arms in homage kneel.
This ship, defying shot and shell, defying winds and seas,
Is fruit of honest labor, rightly done;
The man who built the ship, my lads, remember him, for he’s
The man behind the man behind the gun!
HERE AT VERDUN
CHESTER M. WRIGHT
I STAND on a peak at Verdun—a scarred, torn peak of hope and death.
Far under my feet run the mystic passages of Fort Souville.
I strain my eyes to look over a great field where men have swayed in the death lock with eternity.
Ahead and to the right and left stretch fifteen kilometres gaping with wounds, each shell hole a pit of death, a hideous mark left by the scourge of despotism.
Ahead is that foul stretch from which came and still come the hordes of tyranny, with breath of poison and sting of contamination.
Behind is ruin. Never was such ruin. A blight, a torture, a world pain, piercing and cruel.
And yet behind is hope. Behind are the legions of liberty, the soldiers of our children’s freedom.
Behind are the endless legions, coming, coming, coming. Behind are the veteran legions of France and Britain. Behind are the countless legions of America, coming, coming, coming—a brown ribbon of promise stretching across the sea to the shrine of Liberty!
Here where these jagged slashes in the yellow earth have formed a glorious tomb for three hundred thousand gallant French—here is the testing ground of our destiny. Here they have held for us our heritage! Here they have perished in the eternal splendor of self-sacrifice for us! Here is their borderland—and ours!
Here they have written with their ebbing blood the slogan that has thrilled the world—“They shall not pass!”
The gaunt and sinister craters, one merging into the ragged rim of another, the bits of shell, the battered helmets, broken guns, ill-assorted refuse of combat—each shattered particle a marker for some valiant soul “gone west” in service of humanity.
Here, over this land glorified by a nobility of deed than which there has been no more exalted, must our war be waged. Out of this hallowed ground comes the call of those who have given of their best—the call to our great land for Old Glory’s best!
There will come to us wounds that will rack our bodies and drain the coursing blood of our vibrant veins. There will come to us the aching pain of suffering and loss—here on these red fields of France. But we will save our souls and our nation’s soul! And we will save our heritage and give to the billions of the world the right to theirs.
So the brown ribbon of youth winds across the sea—to Verdun and to the long, thin lines on either side. Here will we prove our right to life and liberty!
Brown ribbon of promise!
Hoping, longing, wounded France!
Brown ribbon of youth and high resolve!
Brown ribbon of Liberty!
THE ANXIOUS ANTHEMIST
GUY FORRESTER LEE
in The Chicago Sunday Tribune
Written when the Allied armies were chasing the Germans across the fields of France and Flanders, in the summer of 1918.
I SIT down to write a poem of our fighting men’s renown,
And I scarce get fairly started when they take another town.
A British commentator’s praise I versify, and then
A Frenchman up and multiplies the happy words by ten.
The cable service headlines say the Yankees swat the Hun,
But ere I get a jingle framed they’ve got more on the run.
I’d like to be their Boswell in a khaki-lauding gem,
But darn those doughboys’ peppy hides—I can’t keep up with them!
It tickles me quite some to hear of how they’re spreading Teuts
Around the landscape, and I’ll say their ways and means are beauts;
The Fritzian din of “Kamerad” is drowning out the shells
As U. S. shockers shock the shockers with their own pet hells.
I want the good work to go on, but I have one request
To make of them before they lay the kaiser out to rest,
And that is this: Don’t stop your war; continue till you’ve won,
But kindly take a lay-off till I get this anthem done!
A RIDE IN FRANCE
“O. C. PLATOON”
in The Manchester (England) Guardian
TROTTING the roan horse
Over the meadows,
Purple of thistles,
Purple of clover;
Over the clay-brown path,
All through the grass-lands,
Glory of meadow flowers,
Over! Come over!
. . . . . . . . . .
On to the highway winding o’er the hill,
White willow-bordered, grassy-banked;
On through a village ruined and broken.
Grass grows in the rubble-heaps,
Poppies fill the courtyards,
Swallows build in broken walls,
And everything is still.
. . . . . . . . . .
While at the corner—walk, O horse of mine,
A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine.
. . . . . . . . . .
On to the path at the side of the white road,
Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise;
Any road, every road, each is the right road,
Facing the east, the sun in my eyes.
. . . . . . . . . .
Trotting the roan horse
Over the meadows,
Purple of thistles,
Purple of clover;
Over the clay-brown path,
Back through the grass-lands,
All through the meadow flowers;
Over! Come over!
THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN
MABEL HILLYER EASTMAN
in Munsey’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
THERE will be dreams again! The grass will spread
Her velvet verdure over earth’s torn breast;
By ragged shard, half-hid, where rust runs red,
The soaring lark in spring will build her nest.
There will be dreams again! The primrose pale
Will shelter where the belching guns plowed deep;
The trees will whisper, and the nightingale
Chant golden monodies where heroes sleep.
There will be dreams again! The stars look down
On youthful lovers—oh, first love, how sweet!
And men will wed, and childish laughter crown
Life’s awe-compelling miracle complete.
There will be dreams again! Oh, thou forlorn
That crumbling trench or the slow heaving sea
Hath snatched thy dead—oh, pray thee, do not mourn!
There will be dreams—thy loved shall come to thee!
THE BOY NEXT DOOR
S. E. KISER
in The Saturday Evening Post
Permission to reproduce in this book
THERE used to be a boy next door
Whom I often have longed to throttle;
I’ve wished a thousand times and more
That he had died while “on the bottle”!
Oft in the past it has been hard
For me to check my inclination,
When he had cluttered up our yard,
To hand him heavy castigation.
With freckles on his tilted nose
And ears that far in space protruded,
He was not one, as heaven knows,
To whom I in my prayers alluded.
Derisively he showed his tongue
And scorned the warnings which I gave him,
But now I list myself among
The ones who pray the Lord to save him.
How vividly I can recall
Him at the window, making faces;
I used to think that in him all
The impish traits had lurking places.
He stole the green fruit from my trees,
Not caring how it might affect him;
Today he’s fighting overseas,
And may the God of hosts protect him!
From childhood into youth he passed,
And then my little garden flourished;
And still his friendship was not classed
Among the treasures which I nourished.
He tortured first a slide trombone,
And next he tried a squeaky fiddle;
His voice took on a raucous tone
That used to rasp me down the middle.
How soldierly our lad appeared
When with his comrades he departed!
I wonder if he knew I cheered,
Or guessed that I was heavy-hearted.
If I have damned him heretofore
I now retract each foul aspersion;
God bless the boy who lived next door,
And used to be my pet aversion!
THE FLAG
EDWARD A. HORTON
in Popular Educator
WHY do I love our flag? Ask why
Flowers love the sunshine. Or, ask why
The needle turns with eager eye
Toward the great stars in northern sky.
I love Old Glory, for it waved
Where loyal hearts the Union saved.
I love it, since it shelters me
And all most dear, from sea to sea.
I love it, for it bravely flies
In freedom’s cause, ’neath foreign skies.
I love it for its blessed cheer,
Its starry hopes and scorn of fear;
For good achieved and good to be
To us and to humanity.
It is the people’s banner bright,
Forever guiding toward the light;
Foe of the tyrant, friend of right,
God give it leadership and might!
THE WAR HORSE
LIEUT. L. FLEMING, B. E. F., FRANCE
Shortly after the verses here following were received from France by the American Red Star Animal Relief, Lieutenant Fleming fell in action. His voice, coming to us as from a plane of life where dumb creatures do not suffer, is a call to civilization to do its duty by the animals whose kind were silent heroes of the war.
WHEN the shells are bursting round,
Making craters in the ground,
And the rifle fire’s something awful cruel,
When you ’ear them in the night
(My Gawd! it makes you fight!)
An’ yer thinks of them poor souls agoing ’ome,
When you ’ear the Sergeant shout
“Get y’r respirators out,”
Then you looks and sees a cloud of something white.
The gas is coming on
An’ yer knows before it’s gone
That the ’orse wots with you now won’t be by then;
Yer loves him like yer wife
An’ yer wants to save ’is life,
But there ain’t no respirators, not for them.
I was standing by ’is side
On the night my old ’orse died,
An’ I shan’t forget ’is looks towards the last.
’E was choking mighty bad,
An’ ’is eyes was looking mad,
An’ I seed that—’e—was dying—dying fast.
An’ I want to tell yer ’ow
It’s the ’orses gets us through,
For they strains their blooming ’earts out when they’re pressed.
We was galloping like ’ell
When a bullet ’its old Bill,
I c’d see the blood a-streaming down ’is face.
It ’ad got ’im in the ’ead,
But ’e stuck to it and led
Till we comes to “Action right,”
An’ then ’e fell.
I ’adn’t time to choose
I ’ad to cut ’im loose,
For ’e’d done all ’e c’d afore a gun.
When I looks at ’im again
’E was out of all ’is pain,
An’ I ’opes ’is soul will rest for wot ’e done.
If it ’adn’t been for Bill
We should all ’ave been in ’ell,
For we only got in action just in time.
Ain’t it once occurred to you
Wot the ’orses there go through?
They ’elps to win our fight an’ does it fine.
When ’is blood is flowing ’ot
From a wound what ’e’s just got
An’ ’is breath is coming ’ard an’ short an’ thin,
’E can see the men about,
Getting water dealed out,
But not a drop is brought to comfort ’im;
Tho ’is tongue is parched and dry,
’E can see the water by,
But ’is wounds are left to bleed,
An’ ’e can’t tell us ’is need,
So ’e’s just got to bear ’is pain—an’ think.
There are ’eroes big and small,
But the biggest of them all
Is the ’orse wot lays a-dying on the ground.
’E doesn’t cause no wars,
An’ ’e’s only fighting yours,
An’ ’e gives ’is life for you without a sound.
’E doesn’t get no pay,
Just some oats, and p’r’aps some hay;
If ’e’s killed, no one thinks a bit of ’im.
’E’s just as brave an’ good
As any men wot ever stood,
But there’s mighty little thought or ’elp for ’im.
PARENTHETICALLY SPEAKING.
From The Chicago Tribune
This delightful whimsy will serve to keep in mind the positively affectionate exchange of greetings between the late President Carranza and his friend Wilhelm, when Wilhelm was celebrating what he did not know was the last glorious birthday in his life.
OH, Carranza sent a cable-(on the kaiser’s birthday) gram
To the kaiser there at Pots-(that’s a German palace) dam,
And it said, “Look out for Uncle (that’s my northern neighbor) Sam,
For he’s coming after you!”
Then the kaiser waved his iron (as the papers have it) hand,
And he danced a little sara-(that’s a Turkish tango) band,
And he said: “I’m safe in Heli-(in the German sea) goland,
But I thank my friend Carranza.”
WORLD SERIES OPENED—BATTER UP!
in The Stars and Stripes, A. E. F., France
THE outfield is a-creepin’ in to catch the kaiser’s pop,
And here’s a southpaw twirler with a lot of vim and hop!
He’s tossed the horsehide far away to plug the hand-grenade;
What matter if on muddy grounds this game of war is played?
He’ll last through extra innings and he’ll hit as well as pitch;
His smoking Texas leaguers’ll make the Fritzies seek the ditch!
He’s just about to groove it toward a ducking Fritzie’s bean;
His crossfire is the puzzlingest that ever yet was seen;
His spittle is a deadly thing; his little inshoot curve
Will graze some Heinie’s heaving ribs and make him lose his nerve.
Up in the air he never goes; he always cuts the plate,
No matter if the bleachers rise and start “The Hymn of Hate;”
And pacifistic coaching never once has got his goat.
Just watch him heave across the top the latest Yankee note!
The Boches claim the Umpire is a-sidin’ with their nine,
But we are not the boobs to fall for such a phony line;
We know the game is fair and square, decisions on the level;
The only boost the kaiser gets is from his pal, The Devil!
The series now is opened, and the band begins to play;
The batteries are warming up; the crowd shouts, “Hip-Hurray!”
The catcher is a-wingin’ ’em to second, third and first,
And if a Heinie tries to steal, he’s sure to get the worst.
So watch the southpaw twirler in his uniform O. D.
Retire to the players’ bench the Boches—one, two, three!
He’ll never walk a bloomin’ one, nor let ’em hit it out.
Just watch him make ’em fan the air and put the Hun to rout!
EDITH CAVELL
McLANDBURGH WILSON
From Miss Wilson’s book entitled “The Little Flag On Main Street,” published and copyright, 1917, by The Macmillan Company, New York. Special permission to insert in this book.
ON law and love and mercy
Was laid the German curse
When to her execution
Was led the British nurse.
In brutal might they thought her
Of help and friendship shorn;
John Brown, Jeanne d’Arc, all martyrs,
Companioned her that morn.
A harmless, tender woman,
They took her to her doom;
A dread, resistless spirit
She rises from the tomb.
Still Germany shall fear her,
For since that bloody dawn
Through all the earth that trembles
Her soul goes marching on!
TO SERVE IS TO GAIN
CHARLES H. MACKINTOSH
in Logging, Duluth
“HE profits most who serves us best!”
Let each who labors, lives and dies
Beneath these star-bespangled skies
Go write that motto on his breast!
“He profits most”—Here is no call
To selfish ease or sordid gain;
Who serves himself will serve in vain;
Who profits most must serve us all.
And he has most who gives the most,
Since what is kept can but decay
—And Death still treads his sleepless way
Among our myriad human host.
THEY SHALL RETURN
J. LEWIS MILLIGAN
in The Toronto Globe
THEY shall return when the wars are over,
When battles are memories dim and far;
Where guns now stand shall be corn and clover,
Flowers shall bloom where the blood-drops are.
They shall return with laughing faces,
Limbs that are lithe and hearts new-born;
Yea, we shall see them in old home-places,
Lovelier yet in the light of morn.
“TO THE IRISH DEAD”
BY ESSEX EVANS
The author of these heart-touching lines is a Queenslander of Welsh derivation. Sir Herbert Warren, K. C. V. O., of the University of Oxford, had this to say of him and of the Toast: “They say that no one but an Irishman understands Ireland, that she will listen to no one but an Irishman. Wales is near to her in geography and in race. I have thought she perhaps might listen to a Welsh voice. She has one today, now whispering, now ringing, across St. George’s Channel. Will she heed it? Who knows?”
TIS a green isle set in a silver water,
A fairy isle where the shamrock grows,
Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter—
Out of the Fairies’ hands she rose.
They touched her harp with a tender sighing,
A spirit-song from a world afar,
They touched her heart with a fire undying
To fight and follow her battle-star.
Too long, too long thro’ the grey years growing
Feud and faction have swept between
The thistledown and the red rose blowing,
And the three-fold leaf of the shamrock green;
But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never:
With rifles grounded and bare of head
We drink to the dead who live forever—
A silent toast—To the Irish dead!
VISION
DOROTHY PAUL
in The Saturday Evening Post
Permission to reproduce in this book
ABOVE the broken walls the apple boughs
Are murmurous with bees;
Again the slumbrous breeze
Eddies the snow of drifted chestnut flowers,
And little ruffling winds go silverly
Along the poplar trees.
They never speak of it to me,
My comrades. Awkward-kind
I hear their voices roughen and grow dumb,
Remembering I am blind—
But through the dark, I know—I know the spring has come
To France!
What matter I’ll not see beneath the wheat
Red poppies burn again;
The gleam of April rain
Along the boulevards; the flower girls
With mignonette and pinks and clematis;
Not see again the Seine
Slip under the silver bridges to Rouen?
Ah, no; nor see
The pale gold smile of buttercups, that glorifies
Gray ruins with bravery
Heartbreaking, valiant—the smile that lights the eyes
Of France!
For through the sightless mercy of my days
White visions come to me—
Beyond the dark I see.
Not this worn, steadfast France, wan, gallant, spent,
With eyes burned haggard by the spirit of the Maid
And Charlotte of Normandy—
But France triumphant, high of heart,
Smiling through throbbing drums
On Rheims restored, Nancy, Alsace, Lorraine,
In that new spring that comes—
The spring we halt and blind and dead bring back again
To France!
RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT
LIEUT. J. H. WICKERSHAM
Written at the battle front in France and sent to his mother, Mrs. W. E. Damon. Lieutenant Wickersham was killed in action September 14, 1918.
THE mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills,
There’s a whispering of wind across the flat;
You’d be feeling kind of lonesome if it wasn’t for one thing—
The patter of the raindrops on your old tin hat.
An’ you just can’t help a-figuring—sitting here alone—
About this war and hero stuff and that,
And you wonder if they haven’t sort of got things twisted up,
While the rain keeps up its patter on your old tin hat.
When you step off with the outfit to do your little bit,
You’re simply doing what you’re s’posed to do—
And you don’t take time to figure what you gain or what you lose,
It’s the spirit of the game that brings you through.
But back at home she’s waiting, writing cheerful little notes,
And every night she offers up a prayer
And just keeps on a-hoping that her soldier boy is safe—
The mother of the boy who’s over there.
And, fellows, she’s the hero of this great big ugly war,
And her prayer is on that wind across the flat;
And don’t you reckon maybe it’s her tears, and not the rain,
That’s keeping up the patter on your old tin hat?
THE ARMED LINER
H. SMALLEY SARSON
in The Poetry Review
THE dull gray paint of war
Covering the shining brass and gleaming decks
That once re-echoed to the steps of youth.
That was before
The storms of destiny made ghastly wrecks
Of peace, the Right of Truth.
Impromptu dances, colored lights and laughter,
Lovers watching the phosphorescent waves,
Now gaping guns, a whistling shell; and after
So many wandering graves.
THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM
Written in the Trenches
Flanders, spring of 1917. Authorship unknown.
OUT here the dogs of war run loose,
Their whipper-in is Death;
Across the spoilt and battered fields
We hear their sobbing breath.
The fields where grew the living corn
Are heavy with our dead;
Yet still the fields at home are green
And I have heard it said:
That—
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Wild crocuses at Nottingham!
Blue crocuses at Nottingham!
Though here the grass is red.
There are little girls at Nottingham
Who do not dread the boche,
Young girls at school at Nottingham
(Lord! how I need a wash!)
There are little boys at Nottingham
Who never hear a gun;
There are silly fools at Nottingham
Who think we’re here for fun.
When—
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Young crocus buds at Nottingham!
Thousands of buds at Nottingham
Ungathered by the Hun.
But here we trample down the grass
Into a purple slime;
There lives no tree to give the birds
House room in pairing time.
We live in holes, like cellar rats,
But through the noise and smell
I often see those crocuses
Of which the people tell.
Why—
There are crocuses at Nottingham!
Bright crocuses at Nottingham!
Real crocuses at Nottingham!
Because we’re here in Hell.
THE WAR ROSARY
NELLIE HURST
in The Westminster Gazette
I KNIT, I knit, I pray, I pray.
My knitting is my rosary.
And as I weave the stitches gray,
I murmur pray’rs continually.
Gray loop, a sigh, gray knot, a wish,
Gray row a chain of wistful pray’r,
For thus to sit and knit and pray—
This is of war the woman’s share.
And so I knit, and thus I pray,
And keep repeating night and day,
May God lead safely those dear feet
That soon shall wear the web of gray.
Now and again a selfish strain?
But surely woman heart must yearn,
And pray sometimes that she may hear
The footsteps that return.
But if, O God, Not that.
But if it must be sacrifice complete,
Then I will trust that afterward
Thou wilt guide home those precious feet.
WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLEY VOOS
PVT. CHARLES DIVINE
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
I CAN count my francs an’ santeems—
If I’ve got a basket near—
An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,”
But the verbs are awful queer,
An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns
When I try to talk to you,
For your eyes are so bewitchin’
I forget to parlay voo.
In your pretty little garden,
With the bench beside the wall,
An’ the sunshine on the asters,
An’ the purple phlox so tall,
I should like to whisper secrets
But my language goes askew—
With the second person plural
For the old familiar “too.”
In your pretty little garden
I could always say “juh tame,”
But it ain’t so very subtle,
An’ it ain’t not quite the same
As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,”
Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”—
But my adjectives get manly
Right before a lady noun.
Those infinitives perplex me;
I can say you’re “tray jolee,”
But beyond that simple statement
All my tenses don’t agree.
I can make the Boche “comprenney”
When I meet ’em in a trench,
But the softer things escape me
When I try to yap in French.
In your pretty little garden
Darn the idioms that dance
On your tongue so sweet and rapid,
Ah, they hold me in a trance!
Though I stutter an’ I stammer,
In your garden, on the bench,
Yet my heart is writin’ poems
When I talk to you in French.
MULES
C. FOX SMITH
in London Punch
Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”
I NEVER would ’ave done it if I’d known what it would be.
I thought it meant promotion and some extra pay for me;
I thought I’d miss a drill or two with packs an’ trenchin’ tools,
So I said I’d ’andled horses—an’ they set me ’andlin’ mules.
Now ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule, ’e is a mule
(Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!)
Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I didn’t learn at school
On the prancin’, glancin’, rag-time dancin’ army transport mule.
If I’d been Father Noah when the cargo walked aboard,
I’d ’ave let the bears an’ tigers in, an’ never spoke a word;
But I’d ’ave shoved a placard out to say the ’ouse was full,
An’ shut the ark up suddent when I saw the army mule.
They buck you off when ridden, they squish your leg when led;
They’re mostly sittin’ on their tail or standing on their ’ead;
They reach their yellow grinders out an’ gently chew your ear,
An’ their necks is indiarubber for attackin’ in the rear.
They’re as mincin’ when they’re ’appy as a ladies’ ridin’ school,
But when the fancy takes ’em they’re like nothin’ but a mule—
With the off wheels in the gutter an’ the near wheels in the air,
An’ a leg across the traces, an’ the driver Lord knows where.
They’re ’orrid in the stables, they’re worse upon the road;
They’ll bolt with any rider, they’ll jib with any load;
But soon we’re bound beyond the seas, an’ when we cross the foam
I don’t care where we go to if we leaves the mules at ’ome.
For ’orses they are ’orses, but a mule ’e is a mule
(Bit o’ devil, bit o’ monkey, bit o’ bloomin’ boundin’ fool!)
Oh, I’m usin’ all the adjectives I never learnt at school
On the rampin’, rawboned, cast-steel-jawboned army transport mule.
AN APRIL SONG
GEORGE C. MICHAEL, LANCE CORPORAL, R. E.
(Written on leave at Stratford-on-Avon.)
ORCHARD land! Orchard land!
Damson blossom, primrose bloom:
Avon, like a silver band
Winds from Stratford down to Broome:
All the orchards simmer white
For an April day’s delight:
We have risen in our might,
Left this land we love, to fight,
Fighting still, that these may stand,
Orchard land! Orchard land!
Running stream! Running stream!
Ruddy tench and silver perch:
Shakespeare loved the water’s gleam
Sparkling on by Welford church:
Water fay meets woodland gnome
Where the silver eddies foam
Thro’ the richly scented loam:
We are fain to see our home,
See again thy silver gleam,
Running stream! Running stream!
Silver throats! Silver throats!
Piping blackbird, trilling thrush:
Shakespeare heard your merry notes;
Still you herald morning’s blush:
You shall sing your anthems grand
When we’ve finished what He planned.
God will hear and understand.
God will give us back our land
Where the water-lily floats,
Silver throats! Silver throats!
A SONG OF THE AIR
GORDON ALCHIN
From “Oxford and Flanders.” B. H. Blackwell, Publishers, Oxford, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
THIS is the song of the Plane—
The creaking, shrieking plane,
The throbbing, sobbing plane,
And the moaning, groaning wires:—
The engine—missing again!
One cylinder never fires!
Hey ho! for the Plane!
This is the song of the Man—
The driving, striving man,
The chosen, frozen man:—
The pilot, the man-at-the-wheel,
Whose limit is all that he can,
And beyond, if the need is real!
Hey ho! for the Man!
This is the song of the Gun—
The muttering, stuttering gun,
The maddening, gladdening gun:—
That chuckles with evil glee
At the last, long drive of the Hun,
With its end in eternity!
Hey ho! for the Gun!
This is the song of the Air—
The lifting, drifting air,
The eddying, steadying air,
The wine of its limitless space:—
May it nerve us at last to dare
Even death with undaunted face!
Hey ho! for the Air!
VICTORY!
S. J. DUNCAN-CLARK
in The Chicago Evening Post, November 11, 1918
Permission to reproduce in this book
OUT of the night it leaped the seas—
The four long years of night!
“The foe is beaten to his knees,
And triumph crowns the fight!”
It sweeps the world from shore to shore,
By wave and wind ’tis flung,
It grows into a mighty roar
Of siren, bell and tongue.
Where little peoples knelt in fear,
They stand in joy today;
The hour of their redemption here,
Their feet on Freedom’s way.
The kings and kaisers flee their doom,
Fall bloody crown and throne!
Room for the people! Room! Make room!
They march to claim their own!
Now God be praised we lived to see
His Sun of Justice rise,
His Sun of Righteous Liberty,
To gladden all our skies!
And God be praised for those who died,
Whate’er their clime or breed,
Who, fighting bravely side by side,
A world from thraldom freed!
And God be praised for those who, spite
Of woundings sore and deep,
Survive to see the Cause of Right
O’er all its barriers sweep!
God and the people—This our cry!
O, God, thy peace we sing!
The peace that comes through victory,
And dwells where Thou art King.
THE HOMECOMING
LEROY FOLGE
Grief for a brother, an American who was killed in France, brought about the suicide of the author of this poem. The manuscript was found beside his body. The lines were published in The Chicago Tribune.
HIS regiment came home today,
But Jim, old Jim, he’s still away.
I know, I know, he’s sleeping there
Out on the fields of France somewhere.
And yet, I stood out in the rain,
To watch the boys come home again,
Just wishing that it wasn’t true,
And that Jim would be coming, too.
Yet, all the while, I knew, I knew—
Old Jim, he’s gone. They tell me how
He fell against the Huns, and now,
He’s gained a sort of dignity
That somehow seems could never be;
For Jim, he was so gay and free,
With never a thought of greater weight
Than just to keep an evening date,
Or get some cigarets, perhaps,
Or shoot a game or two of craps,
Or dance all night, then drive all day
His roadster down the speeding way.
But, now, Jim’s gone, the folks will say,
He was a wonder in his day.
Old Jim—he wasn’t old, you know—
I say that for I love him so—
Grew up with me, and he and I
Would never let a day go by
That I did not see some plan begun
In which we both would have some fun.
And then, there comes that fateful day,
When our men go to join the fray;
And Jim can go, but I must stay.
“Good-by, old top, if I’m not dead,
I’ll give the Kaiser hell,” he said.
I think he meant it, but—. Oh, well,
He didn’t give the Kaiser hell.
Folks always said that Jim was light,
And stayed out much too late at night,
Frivolous and never would,
Whatever else he did, make good.
Why, no one ever thought to take
Jim seriously, the reckless rake!
But when the time to charge had come,
Jim left the trench, along with some
More daring chaps, and crawling, spanned
The hell that they call “No Man’s Land.”
They cut the tangled wires away,
Then our men charged, but there Jim lay—
What is it that the Scriptures say
About the chap that offers up
His all, and drinks the bitter cup—
That’s how I like to think of Jim,
The glory that is left of him.
THE CROWN
HELEN COMBES
in Leslie’s Weekly
WRITE us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale,
Learned on the field of battle, where bullets fell like hail.
Pen us the ghastly story, of thousands of slaughtered men,
Till our souls are sick with horror. And then, oh, soldier, then,
Tell us in tender accents, how men with hearts of gold
Succored their wounded brothers; stripped in the biting cold
To cover the dead and dying. Give us our faith again,
Our belief in a God Almighty, in a Brotherhood of Man.
Paint us a canvas, soldier, a picture of fire and flame!
Men, mad with the lust of killing, playing their grisly game!
Show us the dead-strewn hillsides, guarding the blood-drenched plain,
A picture of war’s grim horrors. And then, oh, soldier, then,
Draw us the white-capped nurses, doctors with skilful hands,
Counting their lives as nothing when human need demands
All that they have to offer. Paint us the women and men
Who bring the joy of living back to our hearts again.
Sing us a song, oh, soldier, chant in a martial strain,
Those who have died in battle, those who come home again.
Call us the mothers of heroes, call us the mothers of men,
Till our hearts are torn and bleeding. And then, oh, soldier, then,
Play us in minor cadence, a harp with a tautened string,
Set to a heavenly music, the songs the angels sing,
Of a world by Love safeguarded, where wars shall ever cease,
Sing us at last oh, soldier, the Song of Eternal Peace.
OUR SOLDIER DEAD
ANNETTE KOHN
in New York Times
Permission to reproduce in this book
“IN Flanders fields, where poppies blow,”
In France where beauteous roses grow,
There let them rest—forever sleep,
While we eternal vigil keep
With our heart’s love—with our soul’s pray’r,
For all our Fallen “Over There.”
The sounding sea between us rolls
And in perpetual requiem tolls—
Three thousand miles of cheerless space
Lie ’twixt us and their resting place;
’Twas God who took them by the hand
And left them in the stranger land.
The earth is sacred where they fell—
Forever on it lies the spell
Of hero deeds in Freedom’s cause,
And men unborn shall come and pause
To say a prayer, or bow the head,
So leave these graves to hold their dead.
Let not our sighing nor our tears
Fall on them through the coming years
Who on the land, on sea, in air,
With dauntless courage everywhere,
Their homes and country glorified—
Stood to their arms and smiling died.
Great France will leave no need nor room
That we place flowers on their tomb—
And proudly o’er their resting place,
Will float forever in its grace,
O’er cross, and star, and symbol tag,
Their own beloved country’s flag.
The morning sun will gild with light,
The stars keep holy watch at night,
The winter spread soft pall of snow,
The summer flowers about them grow,
The sweet birds sing their springtime call
God’s love and mercy guard them all.
LET THERE BE LIGHT!
RUTH WRIGHT KAUFFMAN
in The Red Cross Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
BLACK with the blackness of hell and despair
Village and village and village lay there;
Never a candle and never a lamp—
Four hundred miles of the enemies’ camp.
Trains of munitions that creak with their loads,
Supplies, horses, soldiers engulfed by the roads;
An ambulance crawling, a password, and then
Through the shell-shattered houses the marching of men.
Black with the blackness of wounds and of death
The villages huddled there holding their breath;
Black—till there rang this new order to “Cease”—
“It is over!—all over!—the war!—there is peace!
Come, dance on the ruins—Look, No Man’s Land there,
“Verboten” for years, is a world’s thoroughfare;
And village and village, remember the night,
But turn it to day—and let there be light.
The sorrow unburied, destruction—how much!
Four hundred long miles for the taper to touch!
The shades are undrawn, the lamps shining bright;
It is dawn in the darkness; again There Is Light!
THE PRESENT BATTLE-FIELD
WRIGHT FIELD
in The Stars and Stripes
THE war is over, over there,
And Peace has made her bow—
But the Battle of Verdun is on
At Jenkins’ Corners now!
All’s still along the rippling Somme,
Likewise at Belleau Wood—
But the Jenkins’ Corners Battle now
Is merely going good!
Now beaten into plowshares are
The swords once dripping wet
With human gore—but Heinies fall
At Jenkins’ Corners yet!
The smoke of cannon floats away
In France, a fading cloud—
But the war at Jenkins’ Corners is
Attracting quite a crowd!
Pop Snider had a navvy there,
And old Zeke Wade a son,
And since the boys are home again,
They’ve waded in like fun.
The checker-board is moved away,
A gas-mask takes its place;
The floor is neatly sanded, so
The campaign they may trace.
Pop Snider knows what he’d have done,
And Zekiel has his say
On where they made the great mistake
And nearly lost the day.
They fight it o’er from A to Z,
And slay full many a Hun—
For out at Jenkins’ Corners now
The war is just begun!
NOVEMBER ELEVENTH
ELIZABETH HANLY
in Popular Educator
A THOUSAND whistles break the bonds of sleep
With swift exultant summons wild and shrill;
Impassioned tongues of flames toward heaven leap
To tell us peace has come. The guns are still.
A thousand flags have blossomed in the air
Like poppies in a garden by the sea.
Beyond the eastern hills a golden flare
Foretells the day that broke on Calvary.
Long-darkened Liberty uplifts once more
Her torch on Belgium, Poland and Alsace
And Flanders—on each desecrated shore,
Slow dawns the sun; and on my mother’s face
The look, I think, that Mary must have worn
In Galilee on Resurrection morn.
OLD JIM
NORMAN SHANNON HALL
in The Stars and Stripes
Permission to reproduce in this book
OUT in that vague, vast “somewhere” of The Line
They killed Old Jim, a proven friend of mine.
Killed him at night, while he was on patrol;
All the company found was just a hole
A damned boche shell had dug out where he’d gone.
The outfit passed the place just after dawn
And saw some bodies; but they couldn’t tell
Which one was which. They all were smashed to hell!
They put Jim on the list, “Reported Dead”;
“Missing in Action,” the home papers said.
I wasn’t in The Line when Jim went out.
A piece of shrapnel had hit me a clout
Which kept me pretty quiet for a while—
Gray days when it was mighty hard to smile.
And when I learned Old Jim had topped the ridge
I fell to thinking what a privilege
It was to know him. Jim was just the kind
That stops to pet a dog or help the blind.
The sort you turn to when things don’t go right,
And then forget when all the world is bright.
Jim had a kindly eye that seemed to see
The best in men. What could he see in me?
I never knew; but Jim was always glad
To give me half of everything he had.
That’s why, you see, it cut me mighty deep
To know Old Jim was Out There—in a heap.
I’ve said Old Jim was not identified.
All the outfit ever knew was—he died!
And though there is no way to prove it’s so
This Unknown Soldier is Old Jim. I know!
The Congress Medal and the D. S. C.,
Have been given this Lost Identity;
And knowing that they both were earned by him,
I know the Unknown Soldier is—Old Jim!
THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON
GRANTLAND RICE
in The New York Tribune
Permission to reproduce in this book
THE wind to-day is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing,
Where shadows steal across the world, as silent as the dew.
Where golden youth is yellow dust, by haunted rivers flowing
Through valleys where the crosses grow, as harvest wheat is growing,
And only dead men see the line that passes in review.
The gripping clay once more gives way before the Mighty Mother
Who waits with everlasting arms to guard her sleeping sons.
And lonely mates in silent fields call out to one another
The story of an empty grave, where each has lost a brother,
Who takes the long, long trail at last beyond the rusting guns.
Gently the east wind brought him home to meet the south wind sighing.
Softly the north wind breathes his name that none of us may know.
For only those who fell with him, out in the darkness lying,
Can tell his company or rank, and they are unreplying,
As each dreams on through summer dawns or mantling snow.
Nameless—and yet how gallantly he faced the roaring thunder
Where names were less than star-dust as the crashing steel swept by
To take its endless toll of those the night squad spaded under,
Clod upon clod, beneath the sod that time alone may sunder,
Held where the wind-blown grasses stir beneath an alien sky.
He’ll miss, perhaps, the poppy blooms that sway above the clover,
But rose-red wreaths of Arlington bend low above his dreams.
The reveille at dawn is done, the slogging hikes are over,
Where out the friendly lanes of home, a gay and careless rover,
His wild, free spirit seeks the hills and haunts the singing streams.
No more he moves by Meuse or Aisne, some shell-swept river wading,
No marching orders call him from his rough-hewn granite grave.
And when at dusk we hear far off the eerie drum-taps fading,
What hallowed spot holds more than this, with spectral lines parading
Blood of our blood, dust of our dust, “the ashes of our brave”?
There will be tears from watching eyes, where rain and mist are blended,
There will be heartache in the lines where gold-starred mothers wait.
But where the great shells fall no more, what vision is more splendid
Than peace along the once-scarred fields, the last red battle ended,
Peace that he helped to bring again above the twilight gate?
Let valor’s minstrel voices sing his fame for future pages,
But when the starless darkness comes and the long silence creeps,
When blossom mists of spring return or winter torrent rages,
Write this above his nameless dust, to last beyond the ages,
“Safe in the Mighty Mother’s arms an Unknown Soldier sleeps.”
EPITAPH FOR THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER
ANNETTE KOHN
in The Washington Star
Permission to reproduce in this book
WITHIN this nation-hallowed tomb
An unknown soldier lies asleep,
Symbolic comrade of all those
Who, on the land, on sea, in air,
In that red death across the seas,
Sealed with their blood the sacred truths
For which our country ever stands:
That righteousness is all the law—
That justice is true government—
Man’s liberty the gift of God.
In memory of the faith they kept,
Here through the ages all the land
As honor guard on watch will stand!
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
Above the broken walls the apple boughs, [181]
Absolute knowledge I have none, [86]
Across the sands by Mary’s well, [47]
Against the shabby house I pass each day, [111]
A little grimy-fingered girl, [43]
Archduke Francis Ferdinand, Austrian heir-apparent, [137]
A thousand whistles break the bonds of sleep, [198]
Athwart that land of bloss’ming vine, [65]
Black with the blackness of hell and despair, [196]
Bosun’s whistle piping, “Starboard watch is on”;, [18]
Boy in khaki, boy in blue, [82]
By all the glories of the day, [13]
By blazing homes, through forests torn, [70]
Click, click! how the needles go, [128]
Come! Says the drum, [67]
Come shake hands, my little peach blossom, [76]
Dear little flag in the window there, [154]
Down in the street, with a lilting swing, [108]
Down toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of drum, [112]
“Do your bit!” How cheap and trite, [152]
’E’s a sportsman is our Padre, [36]
Far and near, high and clear, [106]
Flag of our Faith: lead on—, [40]
Float thou majestically, proudly, triumphantly, [153]
Franceline rose in the dawning gray, [139]
God, the Master Pilot, [68]
Gone is the spire that slept for centuries, [92]
Hail and farewell, [126]
Hail, banner of our holy faith, [45]
Hear the guns, hear the guns!, [134]
He profits most who serves us best!, [179]
Here in the long white ward I stand, [14]
Here’s to the Blue of the wind-swept North, [41]
He was a French Boy Scout—a little lad, [83]
He woke: the clank and racket of the train, [121]
His regiment came home today, [192]
Ho! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn:, [21]
I can count my francs an’ santeems, [186]
I enlisted in the infantry last summer;, [141]
If I should die, think only this of me:, [102]
I have a conversation book; I brought it out from home, [19]
I have a rendezvous with Death, [99]
I hear the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric rain:, [42]
I knit, I knit, I pray, I pray, [185]
I never would ’ave done it if I’d known what it would be, [187]
In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow, [101]
In Flanders fields, where poppies blow, [195]
In this last hour, before the bugles blare, [120]
I saw the spires of Oxford, [114]
I sit down to write a poem of our fighting men’s renown, [169]
I stand on a peak at Verdun—a scarred, torn peak of hope and death, [167]
It is long since knighthood was in flower, [85]
It is portentous, and a thing of state, [144]
I tried to be a doughboy, but they said my feet were flat, [143]
It’s a high-falutin’ title they have handed us;, [44]
It’s Spring at home; I know the signs—, [123]
It was high midsummer and the sun was shining strong, [34]
It was only a little river; almost a brook;, [159]
It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns, [29]
I’ve heard a half a dozen times, [113]
I was an exile from my own country, [93]
I wonder what the trees will say, [118]
Just for a “scrap of paper,”, [24]
Leave me alone here, proudly, with my dead, [132]
Left! Left! Had a good girl when I Left! Left, [71]
Let us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died in our cause, [119]
’Mid blinding rain this inky night, [74]
Mike Dillon was a doughboy, [61]
My heart is numb with sorrow;, [51]
My house that I so soon shall own, [110]
My name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty-three, [75]
My son, at last the fateful day has come, [87]
Never a Serbian flower shall bloom, [50]
No beauty could escape his loving eyes, [14]
No bugle is blown, no roll of drums, [86]
No Man’s Land is an eerie sight, [16]
Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, [102]
Now, Mr. Wall of Wall St., he built himself a yacht, [89]
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear, [109]
Oh, Carranza sent a cable-(on the kaiser’s birthday) gram, [176]
Oh, Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you—, [161]
Oh, the General with his epaulets, leadin’ a parade;, [37]
Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance, [146]
One star for all she had, [116]
On law and love and mercy, [178]
On the battlefields of Flanders men have blessed you in their pain, [69]
Orchard land! Orchard land!, [189]
Our little hour—how swift it flies—, [103]
Out here the dogs of war run loose, [184]
Out in that vague vast “somewhere” of The Line, [199]
Out of the night it leaped the seas, [191]
Outside the ancient city’s gate, [48]
Over thousands of miles, [53]
Pardon! he has no Engleesh, heem, [73]
Past the marching men, where the great road runs, [162]
Perched upon an office stool, neatly adding figures, [94]
Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France, [25]
Ribbons of white in the flag of our land, [105]
Saint Genevieve, whose sleepless watch, [20]
Say, pa! What is a service flag?, [158]
She stands alone beside the gate, [157]
She wasn’t much to brag about, she wasn’t much to see, [30]
Some day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace again, [129]
Somewhere is music from the linnets’ bills, [104]
Song of the west wind whispering—listen, [163]
Son o’ ol’ Miz McAuliffe, the widder o’ Box-Car Jack, [155]
Standin’ up here on the fire-step, [80]
Still breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care, [117]
Straight thinking, Straight talking, [57]
Suddenly one day the last ill shall fall away, [151]
Summer comes and summer goes, [72]
Thank God, our liberating lance, [46]
The band is on the quarter-deck, the starry flag unfurled;, [166]
The Colonel has a job to do, [32]
The dull gray paint of war, [183]
The evening star a child espied, [81]
The herdman wandering by the lonely rills, [27]
The Kid has gone to the Colors, [23]
The Kings are dying! In blood and flame, [145]
The little home paper comes to me, [15]
The magpies in Picardy, [130]
The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills, [182]
The nightingales of Flanders, [50]
The old flag is a-doin’ her very level best, [151]
The Old Gang on the Corner! What an arrant tribe they were, [64]
The outfield is a-creepin’ in to catch the kaiser’s pop, [177]
The rivers of France are ten score and twain, [79]
The sick man said: “I pray I shall not die, [133]
The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door;, [78]
The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold:, [17]
The sunny streets of Oxford, [115]
The war is over, over there, [197]
The wind today is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing, [200]
There are some that go for love of a fight, [96]
There is a hill in England, [60]
There’s a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons, [63]
There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ an’ a thud, [26]
There used to be a boy next door, [172]
There will be dreams again! The grass will spread, [171]
They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and who died out there:, [136]
They knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years, [52]
They shall not pass, While Britain’s sons draw breath, [125]
They shall return when the wars are over, [179]
They’ve put us through our paces;, [69]
This is the song of the Plane—, [190]
Thou art no longer here, [90]
Through the dark night and the fury of battle, [84]
’Tis a green isle set in a silver water, [180]
Trotting the roan horse, [170]
Twenty years of the army, of drawing a sergeant’s pay, [38]
Unfurl the flag of Freedom, [98]
Up among the chimneys tall, [49]
Was there ever a game we did not share, [91]
We had forgotten You, or very nearly—, [55]
We never were made to be seen on parade, [66]
We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights, [59]
West to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes, [123]
We whom the draft rejected, [160]
What are we fighting for, men of my race, [165]
When I return, let us be very still, [33]
When the shells are bursting round, [174]
Who was it, picked from civil life, [127]
Why do we love our flag? Ask why flowers love the sunshine, [173]
Within this nation-hallowed tomb, [202]
Write us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale, [193]
Yes, back at home I used to drive a tram;, [97]
You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap, [95]
You see that young kid lying there, [124]
“You’ve heard a good deal of the telephone wires”, [57]
Readings and Monologues à la Mode
By WALTER BEN HARE
THIRTY-TWO platform selections in prose and verse, ranging from humor to pathos, and affording an excellent repertoire for the versatile entertainer.
Contents.—Amateur Gum Chewer; American Eagle; Am I Your Vife? At the Soda Fountain; Betty at the Baseball Game; Billy Keeps a Secret; Black Blue-Grass Widow; Bridget’s Disappointments; Brudder Rastus’ Sermon on the World War; Cullud Lady at the Phone; Free Years Old; Glory Car; Hallowe’en Witch; High School Tact; How to Get Married; Humoresque; Kid’s Complaint; Lodge Goat; Men Who Died; Minnie at the Skating Rink; Mrs. Santa Claus; Newlyweds; Practisin’; Sin of Steve Audaine; S-m-i-l-e; Sonny Meets the Smiths; Traumerei; Turkey in the Straw; When I’m All Dressed Up; Willie, the Angelic Child.
Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25
T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers
623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO
Some Vaudeville Monologues
By HARRY L. NEWTON
Right up to the minute and covers a wide range of characters. Thirteen for men and five for women.
Contents.—“People I Have Met”—Cholly has a perfect batting average in the laugh league. “Well, I Swan!”—Reuben’s impressions of a big city. “Her Busted Romances”—a muchly jilted maiden of uncertain age. “Music à la Carte”—Bobby explains the situation without orchestral aid. “Abie Cohen’s Wedding Day”—a ready conversationalist when his hands are free. “Sorrows of Sadie”—a chorus girl confides to a sympathetic companion. “Tipperary Tips”—Barney prescribes a laugh tonic. “Kissing as an Art”—efficiency is his middle name. “Panhandle Pete”—he hands out a piece of free advice. “Tillie Olson’s Romance”—a Swedish queen of the kitchen. “As Tony Tells It”—he has an imported dialect—try it on your vocabulary. “Suffragette Susie”—who might be willing to change her name and pay the parson as well. “A Sad Lover”—elucidations of a colored Romeo. “Chatter”—Nat has a jitney income, a limousine appetite and a six cylinder conversation. “My Father Says”—Elisabeth does a bit of advertising. “I’m a Tellin’ You”—a small town guy distributes some village information. “The Precinct Politician”—as a political speech maker he is a good plumber. “Yon Yonson, Yanitor”—he turns on the steam. Unique illustrations of each character.
Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25
T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers
623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO
Let’s Pretend
A Book of Children’s Plays
By LINDSEY BARBEE
“Come—let’s pretend!” has been the slogan of all childhood. A few gay feathers have transformed an everyday lad into a savage warrior; a sweeping train has given a simple gingham frock the dignity of a court robe; the power of make-believe has changed a bare attic into a gloomy forest or perhaps into a royal palace. These six plays will appeal to the imagination, to the fun-loving nature and to the best ideals of all children.
Contents.—The Little Pink Lady (6 Girls); The Ever-Ever Land (16 Boys, 17 Girls); When the Toys Awake (15 Boys, 5 Girls); The Forest of Every Day (5 Boys, 7 Girls); A Christmas Tree Joke (7 Boys, 7 Girls); “If Don’t-Believe Is Changed Into Believe” (21 Boys, 15 Girls). Full descriptions for producing; easy to costume and “put on.” Clever illustrations showing the appearance of each character. The most charming children’s plays ever written.
Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25
T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers
623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO
Jolly Monologues
By MARY MONCURE PARKER
Another superb group of readings by the author of “Merry Monologues.” The twenty-eight original selections in prose and verse will prove gems for any platform artist. Many moods and shades of sentiment are represented, but the majority are humorous. The original work of this author is in increasing demand.
Contents.—At the Bridge Party; A Free Lunch; You Have the Same Old Smile; Signs of Spring; Mr. Daniel and the Lions; At the Telephone; You’s Mah Lil’ Coal Black Baby; The Ghost of Annie Flanigan; The Club Luncheon; The New Baby; The Kisses of Life; What George Thinks of the Movies; Isn’t Art Absorbing; Her Valentine; Maggie McCarty Talks About Receptions; Hiram and the Bolshevists; Jimmy’s Prayer; What Mary Thinks of Boys; From the Street Car Conductor’s Point of View; The Eater; The Peach Blossom Princess; One Minute to Eat; A Chop Suey Love Tale; Converting John the “Blaptist”; To Him That Overcometh; When We Went In; Who Says Woman’s Place Is at Home? Red Charley—One Credit.
Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25
T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers
623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO
Merry Monologues
By MARY MONCURE PARKER
These selections are wholly original and sufficiently varied in character and sentiment to enable the reader to make up a well-rounded program in which high comedy mingles with farce and pathos in a manner suitable for all occasions. Nineteen monologues and nine short poems which are especially adapted to that particular form of entertainment called the pianologue, viz., reading to music.
Some of the selections are new but most of them are the pick from the author’s wide repertoire, which she has used throughout this country and in England. They bear the stamp of enthusiastic public approval and are now first offered to the public.
Contents: On the Street Car; The Renaissance of the Kiss; Husbands Is Husbands; Oh, Friend of Mine; George’s First Sweetheart; Bobby and the New Baby; Lucile Gets Ready for a Dance; Mandy’s Man and Safety First; Maggie McCarthy Goes on a Diet; Mrs. Climber Doesn’t Like Notoriety; Lucindy Jones Expects a Legacy; Grown Folks Is so Awful Queer; At the Movies; The Gingie Boy; Ode to a Manikin; Isaacstein’s Busy Day; Like Pilgrims to the Appointed Place; Mrs. Bargain Counter Meets a Friend; Mother Mine; Maggie McCarthy Has Her Fortune Told; In Vaudeville; Uncle Jim and the Liniment; The Funny Story; In the Milliner Shop; Mrs. Trubble’s Troubles; George’s Cousin Willie; When Lucindy Goes to Town; A Question.
Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25
T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers
623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO
FOOTNOTES:
[1] From “Poems,” by Alan Seeger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner’s Sons, Publishers, New York. Permission to reproduce in this book.
[2] “The Soldier,” and “Not With Vain Tears” are from “The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke,” published and copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.