GREAT POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR
[Contents]
[Index of First Lines]
BETWEEN the hedges of the centuries
A thousand phantom armies go and come,
While Reason whispers as each marches past,
“This is the last of wars—this is the last!”
—Lieut. Gilbert Waterhouse.
GREAT POEMS OF
THE WORLD WAR
Edited, With Introduction, Notes and
Original Matter, By
W. D. EATON
CHICAGO
T. S. DENISON & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1918
By
EBEN H. NORRIS
under title
“The War in Verse and Prose”
Copyright, 1922, by T. S. Denison & Company
“Great Poems of the World War”
PREFACE
N a fateful day in 1914, without a warning flash or tremor, there fell upon the world such a blast of war as human reason could not have foreglimpsed, nor Apocalyptic vision raised, to appall the souls of men. Twenty-seven nations took the shock and were rocked to their foundations. Eleven were caught and knotted in the maddest agony of conflict that ever was known. Through four years the winds of destruction swirled and roared around the monstrous welter, before the evil forces failed and their exhaustion brought a breathing space such as lies at the heart of a typhoon. Around the widening edges of that space they still muttered for a while in gusts of blood and fire, slowly receding, slowly dying. But the great storm is gone; the long night that seemed the night of doom is over.
Its epic has not been written. The time is too near us, the motive too deep, the theme too vast. But out of the dark came many voices, voices of lamentation, of home and love and hope and heroism and loftiest ideality, of romance, of strange comedy. These had their inspiration from a gigantic spectacle of elemental passions in cross-play, from the thoughts and emotions not of a single people, but of all that were fighting for the life and light of civilization. Poets great and poets minor followed the war or fought in it, and expressed its spirit with a personal, passionate fidelity impossible to historians.
It would not be well were all these voices lost. Many are worth fixation where they may be heard again at will, and that is the reason for and purpose of this book. The finest and truest of them are given here.
In making selection, availability for recitation has been considered. There is no better way to stir the mind or fix the memory than by spoken words of beauty in rhythmic cadence, especially in schools. It is hoped they will be effective in such uses.
Readers will find in the captain notes many helpful sidelights upon topics and personalities. These will commend themselves for their own sake.
W. D. Eaton.
CONTENTS
GREAT POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR
BEFORE ACTION
LIEUT. WILLIAM NOEL HODGSON
Military Cross, Devon Regiment—Killed in Battle
From “Verse and Prose in Peace and War.” John Murray, Publisher, London. Permission to reproduce in this book.
BY all the glories of the day,
And the cool evening’s benison;
By the last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done:
By beauty lavishly outpoured,
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived,
Make me a soldier, Lord.
By all of human hopes and fears,
By all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing:
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavor that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes,
Make me a man, O Lord.
I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this:
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.
ALAN SEEGER
WASHINGTON VAN DUSEN
in The Chicago Tribune
NO beauty could escape his loving eyes,
Not even ruthless war could hide from view
The smiling fields where crimson poppies grew,
Nor mar the sunset’s rose and purple dyes;
He watched a vine-clad slope, with glad surprise
To hear grapepickers sing, although they knew
Just on the other side, the cannon threw
Their deadly shells and woke the startled skies.
But over all that made Champagne so fair,
He saw the grandeur of the field of strife,
Exulting in the cause that placed him there,
He felt a calm, mid all the carnage rife,
And faced the battle with a spirit rare,
“For death may be more wonderful than life.”
THE NURSE
in London Punch
Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”
HERE in the long white ward I stand,
Pausing a little breathless space,
Touching a restless fevered hand,
Murmuring comforts commonplace—
Long enough pause to feel the cold
Fingers of fear about my heart;
Just for a moment, uncontrolled,
All the pent tears of pity start.
While here I strive, as best I may,
Strangers’ long hours of pain to ease,
Dumbly I question—Far away
Lies my beloved even as these?
THE LITTLE HOME PAPER
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE
in The American Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
THE little home paper comes to me,
As badly printed as it can be;
It’s ungrammatical, cheap, absurd—
Yet, how I love each intimate word!
For here am I in the teeming town,
Where the sad, mad people rush up and down,
And it’s good to get back to the old lost place,
And gossip and smile for a little space.
The weather is hot; the corn crop’s good;
They’ve had a picnic in Sheldon’s Wood.
And Aunt Maria was sick last week;
Ike Morrison’s got a swollen cheek,
And the Squire was hurt in a runaway—
More shocked than bruised, I’m glad they say.
Bert Wills—I used to play with him—
Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim.
The Red Cross ladies gave a tea,
And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee
Has sold his house on Lincoln Road—
He couldn’t carry so big a load.
The methodist minister’s had a call
From a wealthy parish near St. Paul.
And old Herb Sweet is married at last—
He was forty-two. How the years rush past!
But here’s an item that makes me see
What a puzzling riddle life can be.
“Ed Stokes,” it reads, “was killed in France
When the Allies made their last advance.”
Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes
As blue as the early-summer skies!
He wouldn’t have killed a fly—and yet,
Without a murmur, without a regret,
He left the peace of our little place,
And went away with a light in his face;
For out in the world was a job to do,
And he wouldn’t come home until it was through!
Four thousand miles from our tiny town
And its hardware store, this boy went down.
Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap—
But he’s put East Dunkirk on the map!
NO MAN’S LAND
CAPT. JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN
in The Spectator
NO Man’s Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light.
Never a house and never a hedge
In No Man’s Land from edge to edge,
And never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of the morning air.
Only some lumps of rotting clay,
That were friends or foemen yesterday.
What are the bounds of No Man’s Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand,
A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the Eastern hills to the Western sea,
Through field or forest, o’er river and lea;
No man may pass them, but aim you well
And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.
But No Man’s Land is a goblin sight
When patrols crawl over at dead o’ night;
Boche or British, Belgian or French,
You dice with death when you cross the trench.
When the “rapid,” like fire-flies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,
And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four months’ dead.
The man who ranges in No Man’s Land
Is dogged by the shadows on either hand
When the star-shell’s flare, as it bursts o’erhead,
Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch.
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No Man’s Land.
THE GOLD STAR
EDGAR A. GUEST
Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
THE star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold;
It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old,
But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see
And softly whispers: “Here lived one who died for liberty.
“Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile was known;
Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own.
Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell;
Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell.
“No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace,
For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble place
A soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the door,
A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return no more.
“Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who
Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you!
This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell;
This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell.”
WATCHIN’ OUT FOR SUBS
U. A. L.
From Bert Leston Taylor’s column, “A Line o’ Type or Two,” in The Chicago Tribune
BOSUN’s whistle piping, “Starboard watch is on”
Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o’ dawn;
In the forward crow’s nest, watchin’ out for subs;
If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin’ tubs.
Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon;
Transports fore and aft of us—daylight comin’ soon;
Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below;
Something in the water makes the spindrift glow.
In the forward crow’s nest—ah! the day is here!
Transports and destroyers looming far and near.
Ours the great adventure—gone is old romance!
Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look!—the shores of France!
FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES
WILLIAM J. ROBINSON
in The San Francisco Argonaut
Permission to reproduce in this book
I HAVE a conversation book; I brought it out from home.
It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise brush and comb;
It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the stars,
And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars.
But there ain’t no stores to buy in; there ain’t no big hotels,
When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells;
It’s nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such,
But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn’t help you much.
There’s all them friendly kind o’ things you’d naturally say
When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o’ day.
Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air.
But when you use your French book, why, them things isn’t there.
I met a chap the other day a-rootin’ in a trench.
He didn’t know a word of ours, nor me a word of French;
And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand,
But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand.
I winked at him to start with; he grinned from ear to ear;
An’ he says, “Bong jour, Sammy,” an’ I says “Souvenir”;
He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar,
Which set the ball a-rollin’, and so—well, there you are!
I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed me his,
Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz;
“Annette,” he says, “Louise,” he says, and his tears begin to fall;
We was comrades when we parted, though we’d hardly spoke at all.
He’d have kissed me if I’d let him. We had never met before,
And I’ve never seen the beggar since, for that’s the way of war;
And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same
If he’ll ever see them kids of his—I never asked his name.
LITANY
ALLENE GREGORY
in Harriet Monroe’s Poetry Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
SAINT Genevieve, whose sleepless watch
Saved threatened France of old,
Above the ship that carries him
Your sacred vigil hold.
Where all the fair green fields you loved
Are scarred with bursting shell,
Joan, the Maid who fought for France—
Oh, guard your young knight well.
But if by sea or if by land
God set death in his way—
Then, Mother of the Sacrificed,
Teach me what prayer to pray!
RAGNAROK
The Twilight of the Gods
ARTHUR GUITERMAN
in The Bellman, Minneapolis
Permission to reproduce in this book
HO! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn:
The hosts of Hel rush forth
And Fenris rages redly
From his shackles in the North;
Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed,
And freed is Giant Rime;
The Rainbow-bridge is broken
By the hordes of Muspelheim.
The wild Valkyries ride the wind
With spear and clanging shield
Where all the Hates embattled
Are met on Vigrid-field;
For there shall fall the Mighty Ones
By valiant men adored—
Great Odin, Tyr the fearless,
And Frey that sold his sword.
And Thor shall slay the dragon
Whose breath shall be his bane.
The gods themselves shall perish;
The sons of the gods shall reign!
Old Time shall sound the boding horn
Again and yet again,
To rouse the warring passions
That swell the hearts of men.
Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy,
With all their horrid throng—
Revenge, Destruction, Rapine,
The spawn of ancient Wrong,
With all the hosts of slaughter
That our own sins must breed—
Cold Hate, Oppression’s daughter,
And Rage, the child of Greed.
Then, though we stand to battle
As men have ever stood,
Down, down shall crash our temples,
The Evil and the Good;
Yea, all that now we cherish
Must pass—but not in vain.
The gods we love shall perish;
The sons of the gods shall reign!
So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt,
Or berserk-mad, we range
Our spears in that long battle
Which means not Death, but Change.
Our highest with our lowest
Must own the grim behest,
And Good shall yield for Better—
Else how should come the Best?
Yet if we win our portion
How dare we crave the whole?
And if we still press forward,
Why need we know the goal?
But those whose hearts are constant
And those whose souls are wise
Have said that from our ashes
A nobler race shall rise
From shreds of shattered altars
To rear the Perfect Fane.
Our little gods must perish
That God Himself shall reign!
THE KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS
WILLIAM HERSCHELL
in The Indianapolis News
Permission to reproduce in this book
THE Kid has gone to the Colors
And we don’t know what to say;
The Kid we have loved and cuddled
Stepped out for the Flag today.
We thought him a child, a baby,
With never a care at all,
But his country called him man-size
And the Kid has heard the call.
He paused to watch the recruiting
Where, fired by the fife and drum,
He bowed his head to Old Glory
And thought that it whispered: “Come!”
The Kid, not being a slacker,
Stood forth with patriot-joy
To add his name to the roster—
And God, we’re proud of the boy!
The Kid has gone to the Colors;
It seems but a little while
Since he drilled a schoolboy army
In a truly martial style.
But now he’s a man, a soldier,
And we lend him listening ear,
For his heart is a heart all loyal,
Unscourged by the curse of fear.
His dad, when he told him, shuddered,
His mother—God bless her!—cried;
Yet, blest with a mother-nature,
She wept with a mother-pride.
But he whose old shoulders straightened
Was Granddad—for memory ran
To years when he, too, a youngster,
Was changed by the Flag to a man!
A SCRAP OF PAPER
HERBERT KAUFMAN
From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell-Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
“Just for a word, ‘neutrality’ ... just for a scrap of paper, Great Britain was going to make war.”—The German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin.
JUST for a “scrap of paper,”
Just for a Nation’s word,
Just for a clean tradition,
Just for a treaty slurred;
Just for a pledge defaulted,
Just for a dastard blow,
Just for an ally’s summons,
Just for a friend struck low;
Just for the weal of progress,
Just for a trust held dear,
Just for the rights of mankind,
Just for a duty clear;
Just for a Prussian insult,
Just for a splendid cause,
Just for the hope of progress,
Just for the might of laws;
Just for the kingdom’s peril,
Just for a deed of shame,
Just for defense of honor,
Just for the British name!
POPPIES
CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A.
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
POPPIES in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France,
Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance;
Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune—
Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.
Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers—
Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play!
Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn—
Poppies in the wheat fields—but, ah, the fields are torn.
See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench,
Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench,
Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread
Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.
Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun,
Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won;
Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine,
With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.
Poppies in the wheat fields; how still beside them lie
Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high;
Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance,
Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France.
AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN’ BY
LIEUT. L. W. SUCKERT, A.S., U.S.A.
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
THERE’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ an’ a thud,
As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed o’ mud,
’N’ I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly,
An’ I listen to the thunder o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.
They’re jumpin’ and they’re humpin’ through the inky gloom o’ night,
’N’ I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o’ light;
I c’n hear the clutches roarin’ as they throw the gears in high,
And the radiators boilin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.
There’s some a-draggin’ cannons, you c’n spot the sound all right;
The rumblin’ ones is heavies, an’ the rattly ones is light;
The clinkin’ shells is pointin’ up their noses at the sky;
Oh, you c’n tell what’s passin’ as the trucks go rollin’ by.
But most of ’em is packin’ loads o’ human Yankee freight
That’ll slam the ol’ soft pedal ontuh Heinie’s Hymn o’ Hate;
You c’n hear ’em singin’ “Dixie,” and the “Sweet Bye ’n’ Bye,”
’N’ “Where Do We Go From Here, Boys?” as the trucks go rollin’ by.
Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe,
(A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe);
But jus’ the same they’re good ol’ Yanks, and that’s the reason why
I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.
Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light,
Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night,
When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky
Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by.
So, altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide,
My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride;
They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die—
God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by.
THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI
L. L. (A. N. Z. A. C.)
From “The Anzac Book.” Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
This poem is one of many that were written to commemorate the stubborn bravery of the Anzacs, the British soldiers from Australia and New Zealand. These indomitables came half way round the globe at Britain’s first call. Their first appearance was in Egypt, where they drove the German-led Turks back into the desert and saved the Suez canal. They were and are officially designated the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,” a title too long for common use. They have won fame and the world’s admiration as the “Anzacs,” a word made by running together the first letters of their official title. Australia’s own name for her soldier is Bill-Jim. “The Graves of Gallipoli” is one of the most noble and tender poems that have come to us out of the war.
THE herdman wandering by the lonely rills
Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,
Remembering that wild morning when the hills
Shook to the roar of guns, and those wild ranks
Surged upward from the sea.
None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,
And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.
Some bird that sings in English woods may sing
To English lads beneath—the wind will keep
Its ancient lullaby.
Some flower that blooms beside the southern foam
May blossom where our dead Australians lie,
And comfort them with whispers of their home;
And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,
Of the Pacific Sea.
“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,
Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,
“Not we who die in exile where who falls
Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
Lie buried far away.
Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight
For his dear country, there his country is.
And we will mourn them proudly as of right—
For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:
They died pro patria!
Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,
In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.
These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed
Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.
Keep we their memory green.
This be their epitaph. “Traveler, south or west,
Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,
And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.
Our end was happy if our country thrives:
Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—
That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”
BATTLE OF BELLEAU WOOD
EDGAR A. GUEST
This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the Marine Corps verse written during the war. It is republished here by permission of the author and of the publishers, Reilly and Lee, who hold the copyright.
IT was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;
Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.
Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,
And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed;
But Uncle Sam’s Marines had orders: “Drive the Boche from where they’re hid.
For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!” and so they did.
I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told—
None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold.
How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat
With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat.
It’s a tale too big for writing; it’s beyond the voice or pen,
But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.
It’s recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live,
As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have to give.
Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming mounts of guns;
Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded Huns;
On through fields that death was sweeping with a murderous fire, they went
Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German strength was spent.
Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle as they’ve seldom done before;
Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds of war.
For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead,
The living line of courage kept the faith and moved ahead.
They’d been ordered not to falter, and when night came on they stood
With Old Glory proudly flying o’er the trees of Belleau Wood.
“POOR OLD SHIP!”
C. FOX SMITH
in Punch
Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”
SHE wasn’t much to brag about, she wasn’t much to see,
A rusty, crusty hooker as a merchant ship could be;
They sunk her off the Longships light as night was coming on,
And we had to go and leave her there and, poor old ship, she’s gone.
All that was good of her, all that was bad of her,
All that we gave to her, all that we had of her,
Poor old ship, she’s gone!
The times we spent aboard her, they was oftener bad than good,
But bad or good, we’d live the lot all over if we could;
She’s stood her trick as well as us, she’s had her whack of fun,
She’s shared it all with sailormen, and poor old ship, she’s done.
Hard times and soft times and all times we’ve been with her,
Bad days and good days and all sorts we’ve seen with her,
And, poor old ship, she’s done!
She’s stuck her crazy derricks up by half a hundred quays,
She’s dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas;
Her funnels caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in the sun,
She’s moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she’s done.
North seas and south, and they’ve all had a go at her,
Hot winds and cold, and they’ve all had a blow at her,
And, poor old ship, she’s done!
She’s trailed her smudge the whole world round in weather gray and blue,
She’s churned a dozen oceans with her bloomin’ nine-knot screw;
She’s sampled all the harbor mud from Cardiff to Canton,
And she’ll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, she’s gone.
Ports up and down, and she’s seen many a score of ’em;
Seas high and low, and she won’t sail no more of ’em,
For, poor old ship, she’s gone!
And chaps that knowed her in her time, ’tween London and Rangoon,
In many a sailor’s drinking-place and water-front saloon,
Will set their drinks down when they hear her bloomin’ yarn is spun,
And say, “I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, she’s done.
Many’s the hard word I once used to spend on her,
Ah, them was the great days, and now there’s an end on her,
Poor old ship, she’s done!”
PASSING THE BUCK
SERGT. NORMAN E. NYGAARD, 313TH SN. TN.
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
THE Colonel has a job to do
That’s really hard, and puzzling, too;
He can’t quite figure what it needs,
So hands it out to Major Heeds.
And Major Heeds he thinks it o’er,
And thinks it o’er and o’er some more,
And he can’t make it out at all,
So Captain Jones, he takes a fall.
The Captain shoves his helmet back,
And puts his brains all on the rack;
But “D—n” is all that can be said,
And then it’s up to First Loot Head.
O’ course, he “knows,” but hasn’t time—
The work they shove on him’s a crime;
This, and then lots more to boot,
So on it goes to the Second Loot.
Now Lieutenant Young is just a kid,
A baby mouth by an eyebrow hid;
A job like that would knock him cold,
He hands it down to Top-soak Gold.
The Top-soak, ’course, is swamped with work;
It never was his plan to shirk,
But Sergeant Reed, he’s just the man,
He’ll sure do it if any can.
But that old sarge must sleep a lot:
This biz of overworkin’s rot;
He gives the Corp’rul loads of gas,
And so that duffer takes a pass.
But Corp’ruls don’t know what to do,
They’re only built for bossing, too;
So Corp’rul Jenks, he says he’s stuck,
And hands it on to a common buck.
And when the job is finished right,
And all the things are clear as light,
Why, then, it’s found by all the Fates,
The job was done by Private Bates.
An’ it’s passin’ the buck,
An’ a-passin’ the buck,
An’ a-passin’ the buck along,
An’ on with the buck
With the best o’ luck,
An’ I hope you come out wrong.
THE RETURN
THEODORE HOWARD BANKS, JR.
in Everybody’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
WHEN I return, let us be very still;
No mirth, and but one deep, soul-searching glance,
Mindful of the unnumbered graves of France,
Where love lies buried on each trampled hill.
BULLINGTON
C. FOX SMITH
in Punch
Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”
IT was the high midsummer, and the sun was shining strong,
And the lane was rather flinty, and the lane was rather long,
When—up and down the gentle hills beside the stripling Test—
I chanced to come to Bullington and stayed a while to rest.
It was drowned in peace and quiet, as the river reeds are drowned
In the water clear as crystal, flowing by with scarce a sound,
And the air was like a posy with the sweet haymaking smells,
And the Roses and Sweet Williams and Canterbury Bells.
Far away as some strange planet seemed the old world’s dust and din,
And the trout in sun-warmed shallows hardly seemed to stir a fin;
And there’s never a clock to tell you how the hurrying world goes on
In the little ivied steeple down in drowsy Bullington.
Small and sleepy, there it nestled, seeming far from hastening Time,
As a teeny-tiny village in some quaint old nursery rhyme;
And a teeny-tiny river by a teeny-tiny weir
Sang a teeny-tiny ditty that I stayed a while to hear.
“Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea,
But the reedy banks of Bullington are good enough for me;
Oh, the lane runs to the highway, and the highway o’er the down,
But it’s better here in Bullington than there in London town.”
Then high above an aeroplane in humming flight went by,
With the droning of its engines filling all the cloudless sky,
And like the booming of a knell across that perfect day
There came the gun’s dull thunder from the ranges far away.
And while I lay and listened, oh, the river’s sleepy tune
Seemed to change its rippling music, like the cuckoo’s stave in June;
And the cannon’s distant thunder, and the engines’ warlike drone
Seemed to mingle with its burthen in a solemn undertone.
“Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea,
And there’s war on land and water, and there’s work for you and me!
And on many a field of glory there are gallant lives laid down
As well for tiny Bullington as mighty London town!”
So I roused me from my daydream, for I knew the song spoke true
That it isn’t time for dreaming while there’s duty still to do;
And I turned into the highway where it meets the flinty lane,
And the world of wars and sorrows was about me once again.
THE PADRE
CAPT. C. W. BLACKALL
’E’S a sportsman is our Padre,
Of that there ain’t a doubt.
’E don’t chuck religion at yer,
An’ preach at yer an’ spout;
An’ if ’e ’ears yer cussin’,
As yer fillin’ up ther bags,
’E jest ses, “Fumigate your throat,”
An’ ’ands yer out some fags.
’E don’t take all fer granted
That yer murderers an’ thieves,
An’ always tell yer, now’s ther time
Fer turnin’ over leaves.
’E’ll wander round ther trenches,
Jest to pass ther time o’ day.
An’ there ain’t a bloke as doesn’t feel
A man ’as passed that way.
I remember once, near Wipers,
When things was pretty ’ot,
An’ yer ’ad ter keep yer nut down
If yer didn’t want it shot;
While they was fairly plasterin’
As fast as they could load,
’E came ridin’—mark yer, ridin—
All down ther Menin Road.
’E was dossin’ in a “staminay,”
Pyjamas all complete,
When a ’igh-explosive carried
’Arf the ’ouse into the street.
While other blokes was runnin’ wild,
An’ kickin’ up a row,
’E calmly arsts, “Pray, what is the
Correct procedure now?”
They tells ’im as ’e’d better
Do a bunk for all ’e’s worth,
As ’is bloomin’ “staminay” is not
Ther safest spot on earth.
But ’e ’as a look around ’im,
An’ wags ’is bally ’ead;
Ses ’e, “It seems quite restful now,”
An’ back ’e goes to bed.
But ’e fairly put ther lid on
When we made ther last attack:
If ’is lads was goin’ ter cop it,
’E weren’t fer ’angin’ back.
So ’e ’ops out of ther trenches
Level with ther foremost ’ound,
An’ natural like ’e stops one
An’ gets a little wound.
’E’s a sportsman is our Padre,
Of that there ain’t a doubt.
’E don’t chuck religion at yer,
An’ preach at yer an’ spout.
Still, ’e’ll show ther way ter ’Eaven—
That’s if anybody can—
But we’d follow ’im to ’ell; ’cos why?
Our Padre ’e’s a man.
CORP’RAL’S CHEVRONS
ANONYMOUS
in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France
OH, the General with his epaulets, leadin’ a parade;
The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin’ of their braid;
The Major and the Skipper—none of ’em look so fine
As a newly minted corp’ral, comin’ down the line.
Oh, the Bishop in his miter pacin’ up the aisle;
The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women smile;
The Congressman, the Mayor—aren’t in it, I opine,
With a newly minted corp’ral comin’ down the line.
THE OLD TOP SERGEANT
BERTON BRALEY
From Mr. Braley’s book, “In Camp and Trench,” published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
“Shavetail” is a name applied by enlisted men in the regular army to lieutenants fresh from West Point.
TWENTY years of the army, of drawing a sergeant’s pay
And helping the West Point shavetails, fresh from the training school,
To handle a bunch of soldiers and drill ’em the proper way
(Which isn’t always exactly according to book and rule).
I’ve seen ’em rise to Captains and Majors and Colonels, too,
And me still only a sergeant, the same as I used to be,
And I knew that some of them didn’t know as much as a sergeant knew,
But I stuck to my daily duty—there wasn’t a growl from me.
Twenty years of the army,
Serving in peace and war,
Standing the drill of the army mill,
For that’s what they paid me for.
Twenty years with the army, which wasn’t so much for size,
But man for man I’d back it to lick any troops on earth.
’Twas a proud little classy army, as good as the flag it flies,
And it takes an old top sergeant to know what the flag is worth.
Then—a shot at Sarejevo, and hell burst over there
And the kaiser dragged us in it, and the bill for the draft was passed
And—they handed me my commission, and some shoulder straps to wear,
And the crazy dream of my rooky days had changed to a fact at last.
Twenty years with the army,
And it’s great to know they call
On the guys like me for what will be
The mightiest job of all.
Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails bid,
And I know I haven’t the polish that fellows like that will show,
And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West Point kid,
But I think I can make him hustle when it comes to the work I know.
But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, or the Guard,
This isn’t a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought and won;
There’s a serious job before us, a job that is huge and hard,
And the social register don’t count until we’ve got it done!
Twenty years in the army,
And now I’ve got my chance.
Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch the chaps
That I’ve trained for the game in France!
FLAG EVERLASTING
A. G. RIDDOCH
FLAG of our Faith: lead on—
Across the sand-blown plain,
The deep and trackless main,
When duty’s trumpets blow,
Where frowns the freeman’s foe,
And right crushed to the sod
Lifts soul to righteous God.
Flag of our Faith: lead on—
Flag of our Hope: lead on—
When stormy clouds hang low
And chilling north-winds blow
And days are long and drear.
When nights breed grief and fear;
A rainbow lights the sky
Whene’er its colors fly.
Flag of our Hope: lead on—
Flag of our Love: lead on—
In loyal hearts supreme,
Fairer than love’s first dream,
Our first choice and our last,
Brightened by every blast.
Oh, emblem pure and sweet,
Thou can’st not know defeat.
Flag of our Love: lead on—
Flag of our Home: lead on—
Beneath thy folds we rest,
We live and love our best,
The fairest roses blow,
The richest harvests grow,
And care-free children play
And gladden every day.
Flag of our Home: lead on—
L’ENVOI—
Flag of our Faith, our Hope, our Love,
Flag of our Home, wave on above.
We’ll live, we’ll fight, we’ll die for you—
Flag Everlasting, Red, White and Blue.
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY IN FRANCE
GEORGE M. MAYO
HERE’s to the Blue of the wind-swept North,
When we meet on the fields of France;
May the spirit of Grant be with you all
As the sons of the North advance.
And here’s to the Gray of the sun-kissed South,
When we meet on the fields of France;
May the spirit of Lee be with you all
As the sons of the South advance.
And here’s to the Blue and the Gray as one,
When we meet on the fields of France;
May the spirit of God be with us all
As the sons of the Flag advance.
A LITTLE TOWN IN SENEGAL
WILL THOMPSON
in Everybody’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
I HEAR the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric rain:
The Afric spring is breaking, down in Senegal again.
O little town in Senegal, amid the clustered gums,
Where are your sturdy village lads, who one time danced to drums?
At Soissons, by a fountain wall, they sang their melodies;
And some now lie in Flemish fields, beside the northern seas;
And some tonight are camped and still, along the Marne and Aisne;
And some are dreaming of the palms that bend in Afric rain.
The music of the barracks half awakes them from their dream;
They smile and sink back sleepily along the Flemish stream.
They dream the baobab’s white buds have opened over-night;
They dream they see the solemn cranes that bask in morning light:
I hear the great drums beating in the square across the plain.
Where are the tillers of the soil, the gallant, loyal train?
O little town in Senegal, amid the white-bud trees,
At Soissons, in Picardy, went north the last of these!
A LITTLE GRIMY-FINGERED GIRL
LEE WILSON DODD
in The Outlook
Permission to reproduce in this book
In sending his permission to use this sharp flash of the spirit of France, Mr. Dodd wrote: “It may interest you to know that the little grimy-fingered girl is real, and that I bought ‘L’Intrans’ from her every evening for many months during the dark days of last spring in Paris.” The spring referred to being that of 1918, when the Germans were only a few miles from the city.
A LITTLE grimy-fingered girl
In stringy black and broken shoes
Stands where sharp human eddies whirl
And offers—news:
News from the front. “‘L’Intransigeant’,
M’sieu, comme d’ordinaire?” Her smile
Is friendly though her face is gaunt;
There is no guile,
No mere mechanic flash of teeth,
No calculating leer of glance ...
You wear your courage like a wreath,
Daughter of France.
Back of old sorrow in tired eyes
Back of endurance, through the night
That wearies you and makes you wise,
I see a light
Unshaken, proud, that does not pale,
—And you are nobody, my dear;
“Une vraie gamine,” who does not quail,
Who knows not fear.
Rattle your sabers, Lords of Hate,
Ye shall not force them to their knees!
A street-girl scorns your God, your State——
The least of these....
Place du Théâtre Français,
Paris, February, 1918.
SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL
EVERARD JACK APPLETON
By permission of Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Publishers of “With the Colors,” by Everard Jack Appleton. Copyright, 1917.
IT’s a high-falutin’ title they have handed us;
It’s very complimentary and grand;
But a year or so ago they called us “hicks,” you know—
An’ joshed the farmer and his hired hand!
Now it’s, “Save the country, Farmer!
Be a soldier of the soil!
Show your patriotism, pardner,
By your never ending toil.”
So we’re croppin’ more than ever,
An’ we’re speedin’ up the farm.
Oh, it’s great to be a soldier—
A sweatin’ sun-burnt soldier,—
A soldier in the furrows—
Away from “war’s alarm!”
While fightin’ blight and blister,
We hardly get a chance
To read about our “comrades”
A-doin’ things in France.
To raise the grub to feed ’em
Is some job, believe me—plus!
And I ain’t so sure a soldier—
A shootin’, scrappin’ soldier,
That’s livin’ close to dyin’—
Ain’t got the best of us!
But we’ll harrer and we’ll harvest,
An’ we’ll meet this new demand
Like the farmers always meet it—
The farmers—and the land.
An’ we hope, when it is over
An’ this war has gone to seed,
You will know us soldiers better—
Th’ sweatin’, reapin’ soldiers,
Th’ soldiers that have hustled
To raise th’ grub you need!
It’s a mighty fine title you have given us,
A name that sounds too fine to really stick;
But maybe you’ll forget (when you figure out your debt)
To call th’ man who works a farm a “hick.”
THE CROSS AND THE FLAG
WILLIAM HENRY, CARDINAL O’CONNELL
in The Catholic School Journal
HAIL, banner of our holy faith,
Redemption’s sacred sign,
Sweet emblem thou of heavenly hope
And of all help divine,
We bare our heads in reverence
As o’er us is unfurled
The standard of the Cross of Christ
Whose blood redeemed the world.
Hail, banner of our native land,
Great ensign of the free,
We love thy glorious Stars and Stripes,
Emblem of liberty;
Lift high the cross, unfurl the flag;
May they forever stand
United in our hearts and hopes,
God and our native land.
THE ROAD TO FRANCE
DANIEL M. HENDERSON
Permission to reproduce in this book
The 1917 prize of the National Arts Club of New York was awarded to Mr. Henderson’s poem. It was chosen out of more than four thousand that were submitted.
THANK God, our liberating lance
Goes flaming on the way to France!
To France—the trail the Gurkhas found;
To France—old England’s rallying-ground!
To France—the path the Russians strode!
To France—the Anzacs’ glory road!
To France—where our Lost Legion ran
To fight and die for God and man!
To France—with every race and breed
That hates Oppression’s brutal creed!
Ah, France, how could our hearts forget
The path by which came Lafayette?
How could the haze of doubt hang low
Upon the road of Rochambeau?
How was it that we missed the way
Brave Joffre leads us along today?
At last, thank God! At last, we see
There is no tribal Liberty!
No beacon lighting just our shores,
No Freedom guarding but our doors.
The flame she kindled for our sires
Burns now in Europe’s battle-fires.
The soul that led our fathers west
Turns back to free the world’s opprest.
Allies, you have not called in vain;
We share your conflict and your pain.
“Old Glory,” through new stains and rents,
Partakes of Freedom’s sacraments.
Into that hell his will creates
We drive the foe—his lusts, his hates.
Last come, we will be last to stay,
Till Right has had her crowning day.
Replenish, comrades, from our veins
The blood the sword of despot drains,
And make our eager sacrifice
Part of the freely rendered price
You pay to lift humanity—
You pay to make our brothers free.
See, with what proud hearts we advance
To France!
NAZARETH
“L”
in the Chicago Tribune
On the capture of the city by the British under General Allenby, September 21, 1918.
ACROSS the sands by Mary’s well
Along the shores of Galilee,
The paths are pitted deep with shell
And drab with marching infantry.
Perhaps upon the self-same spot
Where He first lifted up His head,
In cellar straw and manger cot,
Now Freedom’s hosts are billeted.
Then ’twas a life—now myriad death.
The Allied troops win Nazareth.
THE CRIMSON CROSS
ELIZABETH BROWN DU BRIDGE
in The Daily News, Sault Ste. Marie
OUTSIDE the ancient city’s gate
Upon Golgotha’s crest
Three crosses stretched their empty arms,
Etched dark against the west.
And blood from nail-pierced hands and feet
And tortured thorn-crowned head
And thrust of hatred’s savage spear
Had stained one dark cross red.
Emblem of shame and pain and death
It stood beside the way,
But sign of love and hope and life
We lift it high today.
Where horror grips the stoutest heart,
Where bursting shells shriek high,
Where human bodies shrapnel scourged
By thousands suffering lie;
Threading the shambles of despair,
Mid agony and strife,
Come fleetest messengers who wear
The crimson cross of life.
To friend and foe alike they give
Their strength and healing skill,
For those who wear the crimson cross
Must “do the Master’s will.”
Can we, so safely sheltered here,
Refuse to do our part?
When some who wear the crimson cross
Are giving life and heart
To succor those who bear our flag,
Who die that we may live—
Shall we accept their sacrifice
And then refuse to give?
Ah, no! Our debt to God and man
We can, we will fulfill,
For we, who wear the crimson cross,
Must “do the Master’s will.”
PIERROT GOES
CHARLOTTE BECKER
in Everybody’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book
UP among the chimneys tall
Lay the garret of Pierrot.
Here came trooping to his call
Fancies no one else might know;
Here he bade the spiders spin
Webs to hide his treasure in.
Here he heard the night wind croon
Slumber-songs for sleepyheads;
Here he spied the spendthrift moon
Strew her silver on the leads;
Here he wove a coronet
Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette.
But the bugles blew him down
To the fields with war beset;
Marched him past the quiet town,
Past the window of Pierrette;
Comrade now of sword and lance,
Pierrot gave his dreams to France.
A SERBIAN EPITAPH
V. STANIMIROVIC
After the retreat of the Serbian Army across the mountains of Albania in 1915, the survivors who reached the coast were shipped to Corfu. Here, and in the neighboring island of Vido, many of them died—to begin with, at the rate of hundreds a day. Some of them were buried at sea. Others lie in common graves. In the midst of the mounds which mark their resting-place, and which vary in size, there stands a cross. On it is a Serbian inscription, written by the poet, V. Stanimirovic, and translated for the London Westminster Gazette by Mr. L. F. Waring:
NEVER a Serbian flower shall bloom
In exile on our far-off tomb.
Our little ones shall watch in vain:
Tell them we shall not come again.
Yet greet for us our fatherland,
And kiss for us her sacred strand.
These mounds shall tell the years to be
Of men who died to make her free.
THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS
GRACE HAZARD CONKLING
in Everybody’s Magazine
Permission to reproduce in this book.
“Le rossignol n’est pas mobilise.”—A French Soldier
THE nightingales of Flanders,
They had not gone to war;
A soldier heard them singing
Where they had sung before.
The earth was torn and quaking,
The sky about to fall;
The nightingales of Flanders,
They minded not at all.
At intervals we heard them
Between the guns, he said,
Making a thrilling music
Above the listening dead.
Of woodland and of orchard
And roadside tree bereft,
The nightingales of Flanders
Were singing “France is left!”
THE WIDOW
MISS C. M. MITCHELL
in Punch
Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch”
MY heart is numb with sorrow;
The long days dawn and wane;
To me no sweet tomorrow
Will bring my man again.
Yet must my grief be hidden—
Life makes insistent claim,
And women, anguish-ridden,
Their rebel hearts must tame.
For while, my vigil keeping,
I face the eternal law,
Here on my breast lies sleeping
The son he never saw.
PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR
From Amelia Josephine Burr’s book of poems, “The Silver Trumpet.” Published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
THEY knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years
Their men and their women had watched through their blood and their tears
For a sign that we knew, we who could not have come to be free
Without France, long ago. And at last from the threatening sea
The stars of our strength on the eyes of their weariness rose
And he stood among them, the sorrow-strong hero we chose
To carry our flag to the tomb of that Frenchman whose name
A man of our country could once more pronounce without shame.
What crown of rich words would he set for all time on this day?
The past and the future were listening what he would say—
Only this, from the white-flaming heart of a passion austere,
Only this—ah, but France understood! “Lafayette, we are here.”
TRAINS
LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE
From Lieutenant Roche’s book of poems, “Rimes in Olive Drab.” Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book.
Lieutenant Roche has deftly caught and preserved in words the strange vision of unannounced trains that flashed now and then past towns and villages bearing American troops from unknown camps to unknown ports of embarkation—the flash of faces of men about whom it was known only that they came from the shops and fields of home and were going across the seas to fight somewhere, for those who stood and gazed as they whirled by. The mystery, the roar of wheels, the eddying dust and the silence that followed infuse these lines with picture and sound that will stay in the minds of any who saw such trains go hurrying away.
OVER thousands of miles
Of shining steel rails,
Past green and red semaphores
And unheeding flagmen,
Trains are running,
Trains, trains, trains.
Rattling through tunnels
And clicking by way stations,
Curving through hills, past timber,
Out into the open places,
Flashing past silos and barns
And whole villages,
Until finally they echo
Against the squat factories
That line the approach to the cities.
Trains, trains, trains
With the fire boxes wide open,
Giant Moguls and old-time Baldwins
And oil-burners on the Southern Pacific,
Fire boxes wide open
Flaring against the night,
Like a tremendous watch fire
Where the sentries cluster at their post.
Trains, trains, trains
Serpentine strings of cars
Loaded with boys and men—
The legion of the ten-year span
To whom has been given the task
Of seeking the Great Adventure.
Swaying through the North and South,
And East and West,
Freighted with the Willing
And the Unwilling;
Packed with the Thinking
And the Unthinking,
Pushing on to the Unknown
Away from the shelter and security
Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure.
Trains, trains, trains
With their coach sides scrawled
With chalked bravado and, sometimes,
With their windows black
With yelling boys,
In open-mouthed exultation
That they do not feel,
Rushing farther and farther
From the known into the unseeable.
Trains, trains, trains
With sky-larking boys in khaki,
Munching sandwiches and drinking pop;
Or, tired and without their depot swagger,
Curled up on the red-plush seats;
Or asleep, with a stranger, in the Pullmans.
They rush past our camp,
Which lies against the railroad,
With the crossing alarm jangling caution,
And fade into the dust or night.
Leaving us to conjecture where,
As they have left others to wonder—
As they must wonder themselves
When they are done
With the shouting and hand-shaking
And kissing and hat-waving and singing.
Trains, trains, trains
Clicking on into unforecast days—
Away from the shelter and security
Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure.
CHRIST IN FLANDERS
L. W.
In The Spectator
WE had forgotten You, or very nearly—
You did not seem to touch us very nearly—
Of course we thought about You now and then;
Especially in any time of trouble—
We knew that You were good in time of trouble—
But we are very ordinary men.
And there were always other things to think of—
There’s lots of things a man has got to think of—
His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife;
And so we only thought of You on Sunday—
Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday—
Because there’s always lots to fill one’s life.
And, all the while, in the street or lane or byway—
In country lane, in city street, or byway—
You walked among us, and we did not see.
Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements—
How did we miss Your Footprints on our pavements?—
Can there be other folk as blind as we?
Now we remember; over here in Flanders—
(It isn’t strange to think of You in Flanders)—
This hideous warfare seems to make things clear.
We never thought about You much in England—
But now that we are far away from England—
We have no doubts, we know that You are here.