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.