"I've got the itch," growled Dirtovitch,
"Bog spavin and lumbago."
"I'm never dry," swore Goshallski,
"I smell worse than a Dago."
"This cheese is high," grouched Buttinski,
"No hungry rat would eat it."
"This meat is tough," whined Ivanuff,
"I think we ought to beat it."
"It makes me mad," stormed Hazembad,
"The prevalence of vermin."
"You've said it right," owned Gotabite,
"I'm lousy as a German."
Said Takemoff, "Our lives are rough
In these here blooming ditches,
But mine's the worst by half a verst,
Since some guy stole my breeches."
Their pay was back, their belts were slack,
Each man his troubles blurted.
With empty guns to face the Huns,
Small wonder they deserted.
THE WORSHIPPERS
Wo Sing was just a heathen blind,
A dull insensate clod,
Yet somehow to his darkened mind,
There came a thought of God.
He shaped an idol out of clay,
And to it bowed his knee;
No one had taught him how to pray,
Alas, the poor Chinee!
An artist took his brush and paint,
And on his canvas board,
He wrought a picture of a saint,
And called it Christ the Lord;
With patient hand, and wondrous skill,
Retouched that kindly face,
But thought it ever lacking still,
In majesty and grace.