Part 9

Life that we might have lived, love that we might have loved, Sorrow of all sorrows, we have drunk thy bitter lees. Speak thou a word to us, here in our narrow beds-- Word of thy mourning lands beyond the Seas. Lo, we have paid the price, paid the cost of Victory. Do not forget, when the rest shall homeward come-- Mother of our childhood, sister of our manhood days, Loved of our heavy hearts, whom we have left alone.

Hark to the guns--pause and turn, and think of us-- Red was our life’s blood, and heavy was the cost. But ye have Nationhood, but ye are a people strong-- Oh, have ye love for the brothers ye have lost? Oh, by the blue skies, clear beyond the mountain tops, Oh, by the dear, dun plains where we were bred,-- What be your tokens, tokens that ye grieve for us, Tokens of your Sorrowing for we that be Dead?

THE REFUGEES

W. G. S.

IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR

Past the marching men, where the great road runs, Out of burning Ypres the pale women came: One was a widow (listen to the guns!)-- She wheeled a heaped-up barrow. One walked lame And dragged two little children at her side Tired and coughing with the dust. The third Nestled a dead child on her breast and tried To suckle him. They never spoke a word.

So they came down along the Ypres road. A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass, Turned and in silence helped them with their load, And led them to a field and gave them bread. I saw them hide their faces in the grass And cry, as women might when Christ was dead.

SONG OF THE WINDS

MARY LANIER MAGRUDER

IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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Song of the west wind whispering--listen The murmuring waves of the golden grain; The lisp of rivers that ripple and glisten, Filled to brim with the night’s wild rain, Seaward going to come again, Pouring the torrents of spring on the acres Fallow and fertile. The wide world’s bread Harvested now by the busy rakers, Gleaners afield when the dawn is red; Wind of the west, where the leaning sheaves Darken the shadows as daylight leaves Or heap the granary under the eaves, Sing the song to us over and over, Happy harvests and multifold, Sweeter than breath of thyme or clover, Western wind over sheaves of gold!

Wind of the south from the wide prairie, Mesquite barren and cactus lean, Where the fleet herds browse and the coyote wary Pierces the night with a note too keen; And the brown plain’s grass grows all between. Fields where the wild sage blows and billows, Purple waves on a sea of jade; And the bending cottonwoods touch the willows, And the water holes glimmer in light and shade. Then swinging up from a land of drouth, And on by the bayous flowing south, There by the wandering river’s mouth, White is the sod with the cotton blossom, Whiter the lint that has broken its pod And lies like snow on the sad earth’s bosom, Fresh and fair from the hand of God.

Wind of the north from the long lakes sweeping Down to the meadows and hills of corn, Over the creeks where the perch are leaping, And the mill wheels hum at the break of morn; Hills where the clover is newly shorn; And sharply pungent as old-world gorse is The hay that the wagons have hurried home; And under the steady feet of the horses The furrows grow in the loose black loam. And ever the amber tassels seize The wings of every riotous breeze To fling gonfalons of golden sleaze, Silken and soft, to the earth’s far borders: “August heat but hastens the days When the hungry herds and the empty larders Shall all be filled with the Indian’s maize.”

Wind of the east--ah, east wind blowing Long, long leagues from a land o’erseas; Empty hands that can know no sowing, Passionate pleading hands are these-- Palms outstretched to us over the seas; Ah, the heart of France is a thing to cherish! But her werewolf, Hunger, cannot be slain Till out of our largess, lest she perish, We hasten the caravels of blessed grain. Till the sea-shark’s teeth forever are drawn, And the dread great guns are stilled at the dawn, We must hold high courage and carry on. So winds of the north, south, west, your treasure-- Corn and cattle and golden grain-- Shall crowd the ships to their fullest measure, And the bread thus cast will return again!

“WHAT THINK YE?”

W. A. BRISCOE

IN THE UNITED EMPIRE MAGAZINE

(Journal of the Royal Colonial Institute, London)

What are we fighting for, men of my race, And the best of us dying for? For wealth--or profit--or power--or fame? Or a statesman’s lust? or a monarch’s name? Or for aught that our sons of sons could blame Did we throw the dice of war?

Why are ye weeping, sisters of mine, With a mien so proud and brave? Do ye weep because of the utter woe? Are ye proud because ye would have it so, Though Fate should have dealt you the final blow And there’s nothing to mark the grave?

What are we fighting for, women and men, And the best of us dying for? It was just because we had signed our name, And the Briton’s creed is to honor the same: It was only for that, and our own fair fame We took up the gage of war.

THE MAN BEHIND

DOUGLAS MALLOCH

IN THE AMERICAN LUMBERMAN

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The band is on the quarter-deck, the starry flag unfurled; The air is mad with music and with cheers. The ship is bringing home to us the homage of the world And writing new our name upon the years. Her officer is on the bridge; we greet him with hurrahs; But some one says, “Not he the glory won; Not he alone who wears the braid, deserves the loud applause, Oh, don’t forget the man behind the gun!” ’Tis said that to embattled seas our ship sailed forth at dawn, Unheeding shot, unheeding hidden mine; And through the thunders of the fight went steaming bravely on, The nation’s floating fortress on the brine. And never throbbing engine stopped, nor parted plate or seam In all that bloody day from sun to sun; The good ship sang her battle cry in hissing clouds of steam To cheer anew the man behind the gun. I look upon her shining bore, her engine’s pulsing heart, I look upon her bulwarks shaped of steel; I know there is another art, as great as gunner’s art, That makes the world at arms in homage kneel. This ship, defying shot and shell, defying winds and seas, Is fruit of honest labor, rightly done; The man who built the ship, my lads, remember him, for he’s The man behind the man behind the gun!

HERE AT VERDUN

CHESTER M. WRIGHT

I stand on a peak at Verdun--a scarred, torn peak of hope and death.

Far under my feet run the mystic passages of Fort Souville.

I strain my eyes to look over a great field where men have swayed in the death lock with eternity.

Ahead and to the right and left stretch fifteen kilometres gaping with wounds, each shell hole a pit of death, a hideous mark left by the scourge of despotism.

Ahead is that foul stretch from which came and still come the hordes of tyranny, with breath of poison and sting of contamination.

Behind is ruin. Never was such ruin. A blight, a torture, a world pain, piercing and cruel.

And yet behind is hope. Behind are the legions of liberty, the soldiers of our children’s freedom.

Behind are the endless legions, coming, coming, coming. Behind are the veteran legions of France and Britain. Behind are the countless legions of America, coming, coming, coming--a brown ribbon of promise stretching across the sea to the shrine of Liberty!

Here where these jagged slashes in the yellow earth have formed a glorious tomb for three hundred thousand gallant French--here is the testing ground of our destiny. Here they have held for us our heritage! Here they have perished in the eternal splendor of self-sacrifice for us! Here is their borderland--and ours!

Here they have written with their ebbing blood the slogan that has thrilled the world--“They shall not pass!”

The gaunt and sinister craters, one merging into the ragged rim of another, the bits of shell, the battered helmets, broken guns, ill-assorted refuse of combat--each shattered particle a marker for some valiant soul “gone west” in service of humanity.

Here, over this land glorified by a nobility of deed than which there has been no more exalted, must our war be waged. Out of this hallowed ground comes the call of those who have given of their best--the call to our great land for Old Glory’s best!

There will come to us wounds that will rack our bodies and drain the coursing blood of our vibrant veins. There will come to us the aching pain of suffering and loss--here on these red fields of France. But we will save our souls and our nation’s soul! And we will save our heritage and give to the billions of the world the right to theirs.

So the brown ribbon of youth winds across the sea--to Verdun and to the long, thin lines on either side. Here will we prove our right to life and liberty!

Brown ribbon of promise!

Hoping, longing, wounded France!

Brown ribbon of youth and high resolve!

Brown ribbon of Liberty!

Here at Verdun!

THE ANXIOUS ANTHEMIST

GUY FORRESTER LEE

IN THE CHICAGO SUNDAY TRIBUNE

Written when the Allied armies were chasing the Germans across the fields of France and Flanders, in the summer of 1918.

I sit down to write a poem of our fighting men’s renown, And I scarce get fairly started when they take another town. A British commentator’s praise I versify, and then A Frenchman up and multiplies the happy words by ten. The cable service headlines say the Yankees swat the Hun, But ere I get a jingle framed they’ve got more on the run. I’d like to be their Boswell in a khaki-lauding gem, But darn those doughboys’ peppy hides--I can’t keep up with them! It tickles me quite some to hear of how they’re spreading Teuts Around the landscape, and I’ll say their ways and means are beauts; The Fritzian din of “Kamerad” is drowning out the shells As U. S. shockers shock the shockers with their own pet hells. I want the good work to go on, but I have one request To make of them before they lay the kaiser out to rest, And that is this: Don’t stop your war; continue till you’ve won, But kindly take a lay-off till I get this anthem done!

A RIDE IN FRANCE

“O. C. PLATOON”

IN THE MANCHESTER (ENGLAND) GUARDIAN

Trotting the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, All through the grass-lands, Glory of meadow flowers, Over! Come over!

* * * * *

On to the highway winding o’er the hill, White willow-bordered, grassy-banked; On through a village ruined and broken. Grass grows in the rubble-heaps, Poppies fill the courtyards, Swallows build in broken walls, And everything is still.

* * * * *

While at the corner--walk, O horse of mine, A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine.

* * * * *

On to the path at the side of the white road, Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise; Any road, every road, each is the right road, Facing the east, the sun in my eyes.

* * * * *

Trotting the roan horse Over the meadows, Purple of thistles, Purple of clover; Over the clay-brown path, Back through the grass-lands, All through the meadow flowers; Over! Come over!

THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN

MABEL HILLYER EASTMAN

IN MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

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There will be dreams again! The grass will spread Her velvet verdure over earth’s torn breast; By ragged shard, half-hid, where rust runs red, The soaring lark in spring will build her nest.

There will be dreams again! The primrose pale Will shelter where the belching guns plowed deep; The trees will whisper, and the nightingale Chant golden monodies where heroes sleep.

There will be dreams again! The stars look down On youthful lovers--oh, first love, how sweet! And men will wed, and childish laughter crown Life’s awe-compelling miracle complete.

There will be dreams again! Oh, thou forlorn That crumbling trench or the slow heaving sea Hath snatched thy dead--oh, pray thee, do not mourn! There will be dreams--thy loved shall come to thee!

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

S. E. KISER

IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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There used to be a boy next door Whom I often have longed to throttle; I’ve wished a thousand times and more That he had died while “on the bottle”! Oft in the past it has been hard For me to check my inclination, When he had cluttered up our yard, To hand him heavy castigation.

With freckles on his tilted nose And ears that far in space protruded, He was not one, as heaven knows, To whom I in my prayers alluded. Derisively he showed his tongue And scorned the warnings which I gave him, But now I list myself among The ones who pray the Lord to save him.

How vividly I can recall Him at the window, making faces; I used to think that in him all The impish traits had lurking places. He stole the green fruit from my trees, Not caring how it might affect him; Today he’s fighting overseas, And may the God of hosts protect him!

From childhood into youth he passed, And then my little garden flourished; And still his friendship was not classed Among the treasures which I nourished. He tortured first a slide trombone, And next he tried a squeaky fiddle; His voice took on a raucous tone That used to rasp me down the middle.

How soldierly our lad appeared When with his comrades he departed! I wonder if he knew I cheered, Or guessed that I was heavy-hearted. If I have damned him heretofore I now retract each foul aspersion; God bless the boy who lived next door, And used to be my pet aversion!

THE FLAG

EDWARD A. HORTON

IN POPULAR EDUCATOR

Why do I love our flag? Ask why Flowers love the sunshine. Or, ask why The needle turns with eager eye Toward the great stars in northern sky.

I love Old Glory, for it waved Where loyal hearts the Union saved. I love it, since it shelters me And all most dear, from sea to sea. I love it, for it bravely flies In freedom’s cause, ’neath foreign skies.

I love it for its blessed cheer, Its starry hopes and scorn of fear; For good achieved and good to be To us and to humanity.

It is the people’s banner bright, Forever guiding toward the light; Foe of the tyrant, friend of right, God give it leadership and might!

THE WAR HORSE

LIEUT. L. FLEMING, B. E. F., FRANCE

Shortly after the verses here following were received from France by the American Red Star Animal Relief, Lieutenant Fleming fell in action. His voice, coming to us as from a plane of life where dumb creatures do not suffer, is a call to civilization to do its duty by the animals whose kind were silent heroes of the war.

When the shells are bursting round, Making craters in the ground, And the rifle fire’s something awful cruel, When you ’ear them in the night (My Gawd! it makes you fight!) An’ yer thinks of them poor souls agoing ’ome, When you ’ear the Sergeant shout “Get y’r respirators out,” Then you looks and sees a cloud of something white.

The gas is coming on An’ yer knows before it’s gone That the ’orse wots with you now won’t be by then; Yer loves him like yer wife An’ yer wants to save ’is life, But there ain’t no respirators, not for them. I was standing by ’is side On the night my old ’orse died, An’ I shan’t forget ’is looks towards the last. ’E was choking mighty bad, An’ ’is eyes was looking mad, An’ I seed that--’e--was dying--dying fast.

An’ I want to tell yer ’ow It’s the ’orses gets us through, For they strains their blooming ’earts out when they’re pressed. We was galloping like ’ell When a bullet ’its old Bill, I c’d see the blood a-streaming down ’is face. It ’ad got ’im in the ’ead, But ’e stuck to it and led Till we comes to “Action right,” An’ then ’e fell.

I ’adn’t time to choose I ’ad to cut ’im loose, For ’e’d done all ’e c’d afore a gun. When I looks at ’im again ’E was out of all ’is pain, An’ I ’opes ’is soul will rest for wot ’e done. If it ’adn’t been for Bill We should all ’ave been in ’ell, For we only got in action just in time. Ain’t it once occurred to you Wot the ’orses there go through? They ’elps to win our fight an’ does it fine.

When ’is blood is flowing ’ot From a wound what ’e’s just got An’ ’is breath is coming ’ard an’ short an’ thin, ’E can see the men about, Getting water dealed out, But not a drop is brought to comfort ’im; Tho ’is tongue is parched and dry, ’E can see the water by, But ’is wounds are left to bleed, An’ ’e can’t tell us ’is need, So ’e’s just got to bear ’is pain--an’ think.

There are ’eroes big and small, But the biggest of them all Is the ’orse wot lays a-dying on the ground. ’E doesn’t cause no wars, An’ ’e’s only fighting yours, An’ ’e gives ’is life for you without a sound. ’E doesn’t get no pay, Just some oats, and p’r’aps some hay; If ’e’s killed, no one thinks a bit of ’im. ’E’s just as brave an’ good As any men wot ever stood, But there’s mighty little thought or ’elp for ’im.

PARENTHETICALLY SPEAKING.

FROM THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

This delightful whimsy will serve to keep in mind the positively affectionate exchange of greetings between the late President Carranza and his friend Wilhelm, when Wilhelm was celebrating what he did not know was the last glorious birthday in his life.

Oh, Carranza sent a cable-(on the kaiser’s birthday) gram To the kaiser there at Pots-(that’s a German palace) dam, And it said, “Look out for Uncle (that’s my northern neighbor) Sam, For he’s coming after you!”

Then the kaiser waved his iron (as the papers have it) hand, And he danced a little sara-(that’s a Turkish tango) band, And he said: “I’m safe in Heli-(in the German sea) goland, But I thank my friend Carranza.”

WORLD SERIES OPENED--BATTER UP!

IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A. E. F., FRANCE

The outfield is a-creepin’ in to catch the kaiser’s pop, And here’s a southpaw twirler with a lot of vim and hop! He’s tossed the horsehide far away to plug the hand-grenade;

What matter if on muddy grounds this game of war is played? He’ll last through extra innings and he’ll hit as well as pitch; His smoking Texas leaguers’ll make the Fritzies seek the ditch!

He’s just about to groove it toward a ducking Fritzie’s bean; His crossfire is the puzzlingest that ever yet was seen; His spittle is a deadly thing; his little inshoot curve Will graze some Heinie’s heaving ribs and make him lose his nerve.

Up in the air he never goes; he always cuts the plate, No matter if the bleachers rise and start “The Hymn of Hate;” And pacifistic coaching never once has got his goat. Just watch him heave across the top the latest Yankee note!

The Boches claim the Umpire is a-sidin’ with their nine, But we are not the boobs to fall for such a phony line; We know the game is fair and square, decisions on the level; The only boost the kaiser gets is from his pal, The Devil!

The series now is opened, and the band begins to play; The batteries are warming up; the crowd shouts, “Hip-Hurray!” The catcher is a-wingin’ ’em to second, third and first, And if a Heinie tries to steal, he’s sure to get the worst.

So watch the southpaw twirler in his uniform O. D. Retire to the players’ bench the Boches--one, two, three! He’ll never walk a bloomin’ one, nor let ’em hit it out. Just watch him make ’em fan the air and put the Hun to rout!

EDITH CAVELL

MCLANDBURGH WILSON

From Miss Wilson’s book entitled “The Little Flag On Main Street,” published and copyright, 1917, by The Macmillan Company, New York. Special permission to insert in this book.

On law and love and mercy Was laid the German curse When to her execution Was led the British nurse.

In brutal might they thought her Of help and friendship shorn; John Brown, Jeanne d’Arc, all martyrs, Companioned her that morn.

A harmless, tender woman, They took her to her doom; A dread, resistless spirit She rises from the tomb.

Still Germany shall fear her, For since that bloody dawn Through all the earth that trembles Her soul goes marching on!

TO SERVE IS TO GAIN

CHARLES H. MACKINTOSH

IN LOGGING, DULUTH

“He profits most who serves us best!” Let each who labors, lives and dies Beneath these star-bespangled skies Go write that motto on his breast!

“He profits most”--Here is no call To selfish ease or sordid gain; Who serves himself will serve in vain; Who profits most must serve us all.

And he has most who gives the most, Since what is kept can but decay --And Death still treads his sleepless way Among our myriad human host.

THEY SHALL RETURN

J. LEWIS MILLIGAN

IN THE TORONTO GLOBE

They shall return when the wars are over, When battles are memories dim and far; Where guns now stand shall be corn and clover, Flowers shall bloom where the blood-drops are.

They shall return with laughing faces, Limbs that are lithe and hearts new-born; Yea, we shall see them in old home-places, Lovelier yet in the light of morn.

“TO THE IRISH DEAD”

BY ESSEX EVANS

The author of these heart-touching lines is a Queenslander of Welsh derivation. Sir Herbert Warren, K. C. V. O., of the University of Oxford, had this to say of him and of the Toast: “They say that no one but an Irishman understands Ireland, that she will listen to no one but an Irishman. Wales is near to her in geography and in race. I have thought she perhaps might listen to a Welsh voice. She has one today, now whispering, now ringing, across St. George’s Channel. Will she heed it? Who knows?”

Tis a green isle set in a silver water, A fairy isle where the shamrock grows, Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen’s daughter-- Out of the Fairies’ hands she rose. They touched her harp with a tender sighing, A spirit-song from a world afar, They touched her heart with a fire undying To fight and follow her battle-star.

Too long, too long thro’ the grey years growing Feud and faction have swept between The thistledown and the red rose blowing, And the three-fold leaf of the shamrock green; But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never: With rifles grounded and bare of head We drink to the dead who live forever-- A silent toast--To the Irish dead!

VISION

DOROTHY PAUL

IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

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