So they were buried on that hill in France,
Before their ears had heard the battle din;
Before life gave them its dramatic chance—
A lasting fame, or glorious death to win.
Yet, looking up beyond their graves of green,
I seem to see them wearing band and star;
Men are rewarded in the Worlds Unseen
Not for the way they die, but what they are.
AMERICAN BOYS, HELLO!
Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French
As along through France we go.
But the moments to us that are keen and sweet
Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,
Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;
And we call to them—‘Boys, hello!’
‘Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life’s best joys!
American boys, hello!’
We couldn’t do that if we were at home—
It never would do, you know!
For there you must wait till you’re told who’s who,
And to meet in the way that nice folks do.
Though you knew his name, and your name he knew—
You never would say ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’
But here it’s just a joy,
As we pass along in the stranger throng,
To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’
For each is a brother away from home;
And this we are sure is so,
There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,
And we want him to feel there are friends right there
In this foreign land, and so we dare
To call out ‘Boys, hello!’
‘Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life’s best joys!
American boys, hello!’
DE ROCHAMBEAU
ON THE PRESENTATION OF AN AMERICAN BANNER
TO CAMP ROCHAMBEAU BY THE MARQUISE DE
ROCHAMBEAU AT TOURS, FRANCE, JUNE 1, 1918
Here is a picture I carry away
On memory’s wall. A green June day,
A golden sun in an amethyst sky,
And a beautiful banner floating as high
As the lofty spires of the city of Tours,
And a slender Marquise, with a face as pure
As a sculptured saint: while staunch and true
In new-world khaki and old-world blue,
Wearing their medals with modest pride,
Her stalwart bodyguard stand at her side.
Simple the picture; but much it may mean
To one who reads into and under the scene,
For there, in that opulent hour and weather,
Two great Republics came closer together;
A little nearer came land to land
Through the magical touch of a woman’s hand.
And once again as in long ago
The grand old name of de Rochambeau
Shines forth like a star, for our world to see—
Our Land of the Brave, and our Home of the Free.