Over the sodden trenches—
Over the skirmish line—
High o’er the hole-torn fields and roads
Cometh a face to mine.
Under the burning gas attack,
And the stench of the bursting shell,
We hope we may live for her dear sake—
She who would wish us well.
(She who has ever cherished us—
But when the hour came
Choked back the tears of the faithful years,
As we left to play the game.)
Between the blazing horizons
That hammer the long night through,
Lapping their tongues of hatred—
Fearless she comes to you.
And over the roar of battle
Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings,
Shine forth the loving eyes we hold
Above all earthly things.
A World run mad with slaughter—
A charnel-house of blood—
But the face of the Battle Mother
Above the crimson flood.
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917.
The drafted men fought hard and well,
The whole big army did,
But we prefer the spirit
Of the Bayard and the Cid.
The drafted men fought hard and well,
But when Jack sailed for France,
They didn’t have to drag us in
By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants.
The drafted men fought hard and well,
But when it first began,
From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf,
We rose, a single man.