NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT
T. C. HARBAUGH
in The Chicago Ledger
MY name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty-three,
Years ago I went with Sherman to the ever sunny sea.
I stood my ground at Gettysburg, that bloody summer day,
When gallant Pickett rushed the hill and lost his boys in gray;
And now our starry banner is insulted and defied,
The kaiser tears it into shreds and glories in his pride;
Just pass the word across the sea to his stronghold of might,
And say that Danny Bloomer’s here and not too old to fight.
I gave my youth to Uncle Sam in years I’ll ne’er forget,
In mem’ry of those stirring times my old blood tingles yet.
With four score years upon me I can lift the same old gun,
And to face our Flag’s insulter will be everlasting fun.
Please say that Danny Bloomer is ready for the fray,
Cry “Forward, march!” and see him in the good old ranks today.
I love the flag of Washington because it stands for Right,
And that is why I tell you I am not too old to fight.
’Tis true I’m somewhat crippled, but I do not care for that,
I feel as young as when I saw the tilt of Sherman’s hat;
I want to do my duty again before I die,
And see Old Glory proudly in the streets of Berlin fly.
I do not know the kaiser, but I hope within a year
Amid the roar of cannon he will say, “Old Bloomer’s here!”
Yes, hand me down a rifle and I will use it right,
Your Uncle Danny Bloomer isn’t yet too old to fight.
We’ve borne their insults long enough—they make me long to go.
I want to squint along my gun and aim it at the foe;
I’ll eat the same old rations that I ate in ’64,
And feel the blood of youth again amid the battle’s roar.
I haven’t long to tarry here until my work is done,
But I want to show the kaiser we’re not in it for fun;
So give me marching orders and I’ll disappear from sight,
For I am Danny Bloomer, and I’m not too old to fight.
A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE
ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE
in The New York Herald
Permission to reproduce in this book
“COME shake hands, my little peach blossom.
That’s right, dear, climb up on my knee.
This big Yankee soldier is lonesome—
Ah, now we’ll be friends, ma chérie.
We won’t understand one another,
Your round eyes are telling me so,
But the cling of your chubby fingers
Is a language that all daddies know.
When I caught a sight of your pigtails
And those eyes of violet blue,
It made me heart-hungry, ma petite,
For I’ve a wee girl just like you.
She lives ’way across the wide ocean,
Out where the bald eagles nest,
And she knows all the chipmunks and gophers
At my shack out in the West.”
“Tu dis l’ouest! Est-ce ton pays?
Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi—
Maman est toujours à pleurer—
Me retrouver mon soldat Papa?
Il etait avec sa batterie
Près des Anglais la, en campagne,
Mais Papa est allé dans l’ouest,
Des Anglais disaient à Maman.
Alors, Maman sera heureuse
Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus;
Je veux te donner un baiser,—
Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous!”