MONSIEUR POILU
You'd say that he was plucky,
If you saw him in a trench.
It matters not how mucky
You'd know that he was French.
Monsieur Poilu, gay and eager in his tattered, war-stained coat,
Sniping Germans as a pastime with the laughter in his throat.
Here's looking at you, Poilu, dashing son of gallant France,
You're a gentleman and soldier and you take a fighting chance.
He's bearded and he's scrappy,
And his cheeks, they ruddy glow;
He can fight, and he is happy,
When he's charging on the foe.
You would think he was in Paris listening to some sweet refrain,
Or dining with the petite femmes along the river Seine,
Instead of facing Prussian steel and charging through the fray.
Then here's to you, gallant Poilu, with you're heart so light and gay.
Comrade Poilu over there,
Fighting to your latest breath,
With a smile so debonair
In the blazing face of death,
You have won undying glory, to your country you've been true,
And the whole wide world salutes you and drinks a toast to you.
You're a reckless, laughing devil as D'Artagnan of romance,
And you're fighting, fighting, fighting for beloved La Belle France.
"THE BELLS OF BELGIUM"
I heard the bells of Belgium sweetly ringing,
Like angel tones celestial on the air.
Within the fields the harvesters were singing,
When plentitude and peace were there.
I heard the bells of Belgium softly chiming,
When o'er the peaceful vale uprose the moon;
The maiden walked, her lover's arm entwining,
Unthinking of his exile, or her doom.
I heard the bells of Belgium sadly tolling,
They sobbed across the vineyards and the dunes,
The rack of war across the land was rolling,
And ravagers had laid the land in ruins.