Chapter 1
Transcribed from the 1919 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email [email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
HELLO, BOYS!
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
LONDON
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
1919
_All rights reserved_
* * * * *
_N.B._—The only volumes of my Poems issues with my approval in the British Empire are published by Messrs. Gay & Hancock.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
FORWARD
THE greater part of these verses dealing with the war were written in France during my recent seven months’ sojourn there, and for the purpose of using in entertainments given in camps and hospitals to thousands of American soldiers.
They were the result of coming into close contact with the soldiers’ mind and heart, and were intentionally expressed in the simplest manner, without any consideration of methods approved by modern critics. The fact that I have been asked to autograph scores of copies of many of these verses (and one of them to the extent of 350 copies) is more gratifying to me than would be the highest encomiums of the purely literary critic.
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
London, _October_ 1918.
CONTENTS
PAGE THANKSGIVING 1 THE BRAVE HIGHLAND LADDIES 3 MEN OF THE SEA 6 ODE TO THE BRITISH FLEET 9 THE GERMAN FLEET 11 DEEP UNTO DEEP WAS CALLING 12 THE SONG OF THE ALLIES 14 TEN THOUSAND MEN A DAY 16 “AMERICA WILL NOT TURN BACK” 18 WAR 20 THE HOUR 23 THE MESSAGE 25 “FLOWERS OF FRANCE” 29 OUR ATLAS 34 CAMP FOLLOWERS 37 COME BACK CLEAN 39 CAMOUFLAGE 41 THE AWAKENING 42 THE KHAKI BOYS WHO WERE NOT AT THE FRONT 44 TIME’S HYMN OF HATE 46 DEAR MOTHERLAND OF FRANCE 48 THE SPIRIT OF GREAT JOAN 50 SPEAK 52 THE GIRL OF THE U.S.A. 54 PASSING THE BUCK 56 SONG OF THE AVIATOR 57 THE STEVEDORES 59 A SONG OF HOME 61 THE SWAN OF DIJON 73 VEILS 65 IN FRANCE I SAW A HILL 68 AMERICAN BOYS, HELLO! 70 DE ROCHAMBEAU 72 AFTER 74 THE BLASPHEMY OF GUNS 75 THE CRIMES OF PEACE 78 IT MAY BE 82 THEN AND NOW 85 WIDOWS 89 CONVERSATION 93 I, TOO 97 HE THAT HATH EARS 99 ANSWERS 101 HOW IS IT? 104 ‘LET US GIVE THANKS’ 107 THE BLACK SHEEP 109 ONE BY ONE 112 PRAYER 114 BE NOT DISMAYED 116 ASCENSION 118 THE DEADLIEST SIN 121 THE RAINBOW OF PROMISE 124 THEY SHALL NOT WIN 126
THANKSGIVING
Thanksgiving for the strong armed day, That lifted war’s red curse, When Peace, that lordly little word, Was uttered in a voice that stirred— Yea, shook the Universe.
Thanksgiving for the Mighty Hour That brimmed the Victor’s cup, When England signalled to the foe, ‘The German flag must be brought low And not again hauled up!’
Thanksgiving for the sea and air Free from the Devil’s might! Thanksgiving that the human race Can lift once more a rev’rent face, And say, ‘God helps the Right.’
Thanksgiving for our men who came In Heaven-protected ships, The waning tide of hope to swell, With ‘Lusitania’ and ‘Cavell’ As watchwords on their lips.
Thanksgiving that our splendid dead, All radiant with youth, Dwell near to us—there is no death. Thanksgiving for the broad new faith That helps us know this truth.
THE BRAVE HIGHLAND LADDIES
I had seen our splendid soldiers in their khaki uniforms, And their leaders with a Sam Brown belt; I had seen the fighting Britons and Colonials in swarms, I had seen the blue-clad Frenchmen, and I felt That the mighty martial show Had no new sight to bestow, Till I walked on Piccadilly, and my word! By the bonnie Highland laddies In their kilts and their plaidies, To a wholly new sensation I was stirred.
They were like some old-time picture, or a scene from out a play, They were stalwart, they were young, and debonnair; Their jaunty little caps they wore in such a fetching way, And they showed their handsome legs, and didn’t care— And they seemed to own the town As they strode on up and down— Oh, they surely were a sight for tired eyes! Those braw, bonnie laddies In their kilts and their plaidies, And I stared at them with pleasure and surprise.
I had read about the valour of old Scotland’s warrior sons— How they fought to a finish, or else fell; I had heard the name bestowed on them by agitated Huns, Who called these skirted soldiers ‘Dames of Hell’; And I gave them right of way On their London holiday, As I met them swinging down the street and Strand, Those bonnie, bonnie laddies In their kilts and their plaidies, And I breathed a blessing on them and their land
Now the world is all rejoicing that the end of war has come— And no heart is any gladder than my own, That the brutal, blatant voices of the guns at last are dumb, And the Dove of Peace from out her cage has flown. Yet, when men no more march by, Making pictures for the eye, There’s a vital dash of colour earth will lack, When the brave Highland laddies Drop their kilts and their plaidies, And return to common clothes of grey or black!
MEN OF THE SEA
_Many the songs of the brave boys sent_ _Over The Top in the battle’s thunder_; _But mine is the song of the men who went_ _Over the top of the waves—and under_.
Men of the sea, Men of the sea, I lift mine eyes to the Flags unfurled— The Flags of Victory blowing free Over the new-born world. And I cry ‘Thank God! these things can be! Thank God, and the Men of the Sea!’
Little it matters to what they belong, Marine or Navy—or Merchant Ship— To the Men of the Sea I sing my song; A song that rises from heart to lip.
I sing of the valour that ploughed a path Straight through the snares of a crafty foe, Through billows raging with wintry wrath, And over the dens of the devils below.
To the splendid heroes of Jutland Bank And the Royal Navy I give their due; And cheek by jowl with them all, I rank The brave mine-sweepers and merchant crew.
Trawler—Drifter—or English Fleet— All are manned by the Men of the Sea, And all together in my heart meet, For a boat is a boat to the mind of me.
And who ever over the dread seas fared, And however humble his work or place, To the great Christ spirit must be compared— Since he offered his life for the good of the race.
And how many lie in the deep-sea bed, No man can reckon, and no man number; But not one Soul of them all is dead, For death is only the body’s slumber.
And the Men of the Mist, who from dark to dawn On the deck or the bridge stand guard at night, Oft feel the presence of comrades gone Who keep watch with them, though veiled from sight.
_Many the songs of the brave boys sent_ _Over The Top in the battle’s thunder_; _But mine is the song of the men who went_ _Over the top of the waves—and under_.
ODE TO THE BRITISH FLEET
‘Invisible and silent’—Mystery Surrounded that great Guardian of the Sea. That Father—Mother—of the mighty main. While loud in valley and on field and hill— And over anguished plain The battles thundered. God himself is still And hidden from men’s view; and it were meet That this subliminal force Should move in utter silence on its course Invisible—Inaudible—till that hour When Time, Fate’s Minister, should speak and say— ‘Come forth! and show thy power!’ When Time commands, even the gods obey.
‘Invisible and silent’; yet the foe Was driven from the Sea. All impotent The brazen braggart went. While commerce sent her brave ships to and fro; And from Columbia’s shores there sailed away Ten thousand men a day— Ten thousand men a day! who reached their goals Bringing new courage to war-weary souls.
Oh, silent wonder of the noisy sea! Though alien, with the blood of Bunker Hill Down filtering through my veins, the heart of me Seems with a mingled love and awe to fill And overflow at thought of that sublime, Unparalleled large hour of Time; When bloodless Victory saw the foes’ flag furled— That insolent menace to a righteous world.
Great Britain’s Fleet unshaken in its might, Proclaimed itself again in all men’s sight The Mistress of the Main. Fair Freedom’s friend, May peace and glory on thy path attend.
THE GERMAN FLEET
Lie down, and let the billows hide your shame, Oh, shorn and naked outcast of the seas! You who confided to each ocean breeze Your coming conquests, and made loud acclaim Of your own grandeur and exalted fame; You who have catered to they world’s disease; You who have drunk hate’s wine, and found the lees; Lie down! and let all men forget your name!
You dreamed of world dominion! you! the spawn Of hell and hatred—Foe to all things free— Sworn enemy to honour, truth and right; Too poor a thing now for the Devil’s pawn, Let the large mercy of the outraged sea Engulf and hide you evermore from sight.
DEEP UNTO DEEP WAS CALLING
They rode through the bannered city— The King and the Commoner, And the hopes of the world were with them, And the heart of the world was astir. For the moss-grown walls seemed falling That have shut away men from Kings; And Deep unto Deep was calling For the coming of greater things.
They rode to an age-old Palace Where the feet of the Mighty go— (A Palace that stands unshaken Despite the boast of the foe!) And the King from Kings descending— And the Man of the People’s choice In a Super-Man seemed blending, And they spoke as with one voice.
And one voice now and for ever Will speak from sea to sea, Wherever the British Banner And the Starry Flag float free. For our fettering chains are sundered By the evil that turned to good, And Deep unto Deep has thundered Its message of Brotherhood.
It was not a pageant of Victors— Or a triumph hour of man, That ride through the bannered City, It was part of a Mighty Plan; And the sound of old barriers falling Rose there where those Rulers trod, For Deep unto Deep was calling In the resonant Voice of God.
THE SONG OF THE ALLIES
We are the Allies of God to-day, And the width of the earth is our right of way. Let no man question or ask us why, As we speed to answer a wild world cry; Let no man hinder or ask us where, As out over water and land we fare; For whether we hurry, or whether we wait, We follow the finger of guiding fate.
We are the Allies. We differ in faith, But are one in our courage at thought of death. Many and varied the tongues we speak, But one and the same is the goal we seek. And the goal we seek is not power or place, But the peace of the world, and the good of the race. And little matters the colour of skin, When each heart under it beats to win.
We are the Allies; we fight or fly, We wallow in trenches like pigs in a sty, We dive under water to foil a foe, We wait in quarters, or rise and go. And staying or going, or near or far, One thought is ever our guiding star: We are the Allies of God to-day, We are the Allies—make way! make way!
TEN THOUSAND MEN A DAY
All the world was wearying, All the world was sad; Everything was shadow-filled; Things were going bad. Then a rumour stirred all hearts As a wind stirs trees— Ten thousand men a day Coming over seas!
Soon we saw them marching by— God! what a sight!— Shoulders back, and heads erect, Faces full of light. Smiling like a morn in May, Moving like a breeze, Ten thousand men a day Coming over seas.
Weary soldiers worn with war Lifted up their eyes, Shadows seemed to fade a bit, Dawn was in the skies. Hope sprang to troubled hearts, Strength to tired knees: Ten thousand men a day Were coming over seas.
France and England swarmed with them, Khaki-clad and young, Filled with all the joy of life— Into line they swung. Waning valour rose anew At the sight of these Ten thousand men a day Coming over seas.
Still they come—and still they come In their strength and pride. Victory with radiant mien Marches on beside. Victory is here to stay, Every heart agrees, With ten thousand men a day Coming over seas.
‘AMERICA WILL NOT TURN BACK’
WOODROW WILSON
America will not turn back; She did not idly start, But weighed full carefully and well Her grave, important part. She chose the part of Freedom’s friend, And will pursue it, to the end.
Great Liberty, who guards her gates, Will shine upon her course, And light the long, adventurous path With radiance from God’s Source. And though blood dye that ocean track, America will not turn back.
She will not turn until that hour When thunders through the world The crash of tyrant monarchies By Freedom’s hand down-hurled. While Labour’s voice from sea to sea Sings loud, ‘My country, ’tis of thee.’
Then will our fair Columbia turn, While all wars’ clamours cease, And with our banner lifted high Proclaim, ‘Let there be Peace.’ But till that glorious day shall dawn She will march on, she will march on.
WAR
I
There is no picturesqueness and no glory, No halo of romance, in war to-day. It is a hideous thing; Time would turn grey With horror, were he not already hoary At sight of this vile monster, foul and gory. Yet while sweet women perish as they pray, And new-born babes are slaughtered, who dare say ‘Halt!’ till Right pens its ‘Finis’ to the story! There is no pathway, but the path through blood, Out of the horrors of this holocaust. Hell has let loose its scalding crimson flood, And he who stops to argue now is lost. Not brooms of creeds, not Pacifistic words Can stem the tide, but swords—uplifted swords!
II
Yet, after Peace has turned the clean white page There shall be sorrow on the earth for years; Abysmal grief, that has no eyes for tears, And youth that hobbles through the earth like age. But better to play this part upon life’s stage Than to aid structures that a tyrant rears, To live a stalwart hireling torn with fears, And shamed by feeding on a conqueror’s wage. Death, yea, a thousand deaths, were sweet in truth Rather than such ignoble life. God gave Being, and breath, and high resolve to youth That it might be Wrong’s master, not its slave. Our road to Freedom is the road to guns! Go, arm your sons! I say, Go, arm your sons!
III
Arm! arm! that mandate on each wind is whirled. Let no man hesitate or look askance, For from the devastated homes of France And ruined Belgium the cry is hurled. Why, Christ Himself would keep peace banners furled Were He among us, till, with lifted lance, He saw the hosts of Righteousness advance To purify the Temples of the world. There is no safety on the earth to-day For any sacred thing, or clean, or fair; Nor can there be, until men rise and slay The hydra-headed monster in his lair. War! horrid War! now Virtue’s only friend; Clasp hands with War, and battle to the end!
THE HOUR
This is the world’s stupendous hour— The supreme moment for the race To see the emptiness of power, The worthlessness of wealth and place, To see the purpose and the plan Conceived by God for growing man.
And they who see and comprehend That ultimate and lofty aim Will wait in patience for the end, Knowing injustice cannot claim One lasting victory, or control Laws that bar progress for the whole.
This is an epoch-making time; God thunders through the universe A message glorious and sublime, At once a blessing and a curse. Blessings for those who seek His light, Curses for those whose law is might.
Ephemeral as the sunset glow Is human grandeur. Mortal life Was given that souls might seek and know Immortal truths; and through the strife That shakes the earth from land to land The wise shall hear and understand.
Out of the awful holocaust, Out of the whirlwind and the flood, Out of old creeds to Bedlam tossed, Shall rise a new earth washed in blood— A new race filled with spirit power, _This is the world’s stupendous hour_.
THE MESSAGE
I have not the gift of vision, I have not the psychic ear, And the realms that are called Elysian I neither see nor hear; Yet oft when the shadows darken And the daylight hides its face, The soul of me seems to hearken For the truths that speak through space.
They speak to me not through reason, They speak to me not by word; Yet my soul would be guilty of treason If it did not say it had heard. For Space has a message compelling To give to the ear of Earth; And the things which the Silence is telling In the bosom of God have birth.
Now this is the truth as I hear it— That ever through good or ill, The will of the Ruling Spirit Is moving and ruling still. In the clutch of the blood-red terror That holds the world in its might, The Race is learning its error And will find its way to the light.
And this is the Truth as I see it— Whoever cries out for peace, Must think it, and live it, and _be it_, And the wars of the world will cease. Men fight that man may awaken, And no longer want to kill; Wars rage, and the heavens are shaken That man may learn how to be still.
In the silence he finds his Saviour— The God Who is dwelling within; And only by Christ-behaviour Is the soul of him saved from sin. There is only one Source—no other— One Light, and each soul is a ray; And he who would slaughter his brother, _Himself_ he is seeking to slay.
Now these are the Truths we are learning Through evils and horrors untold; For the thought of the race is turning Away from its methods of old. And the mind of the race is sated, With the things that it prized of yore, And the monster of war is hated, As never on earth before.
Oh, slow are God’s mills in the grinding, But they grind exceedingly small; And slow is man’s soul in the finding, That he is a part of the All. Through æons and æons, his story Is bloody and blackened with crime; But he will come out into glory And stand on the summits sublime.
He will stand on the summits of Knowledge, In the splendour of Light from the Source; And the methods of church and of college Will all of them change by his force. For the creeds that are blind and cruel, And the teachings by rule and by rod, Will all be turned into fuel To light up the pathway to God.
This is the Truth as I hear it— _The clouds are rolling away_, _And Spirit will talk with Spirit_ _In the swift approaching day_. _War from the world shall be driven_, _From evil shall come forth good_; _And men shall make ready for Heaven_ _Through living in Brotherhood_.
‘FLOWERS OF FRANCE’
DECORATION POEM FOR SOLDIERS’ GRAVES, TOURS, FRANCE, MAY 30, 1918
_Flowers of France in the Spring_, _Your growth is a beautiful thing_; _But give us your fragrance and bloom_— _Yea_, _give us your lives in truth_, _Give us your sweetness and grace_ _To brighten the resting-place_ _Of the flower of manhood and youth_, _Gone into the dust of the tomb_.
This is the vast stupendous hour of Time, When nothing counts but sacrifice and faith, Service and self-forgetfulness. Sublime And awful are these moments charged with death And red with slaughter. Yet God’s purpose thrives In all this holocaust of human lives.
I say God’s purpose thrives. Just in the measure That men have flung away their lust for gain, Stopped in their mad pursuit of worldly pleasure, And boldly faced unprecedented pain And dangers, without thinking of the cost, So thrives God’s purpose in the holocaust.
Death is a little thing: all men must die; But when ideals die, God grieves in Heaven. Therefore I think it was the reason why This Armageddon to the world was given. The Soul of man, forgetful of its birth, Was losing sight of everything but earth.
Up from these many million graves shall spring, A shining harvest for the coming race. An Army of Invisibles shall bring A glorified lost faith back to its place. And men shall know there is a higher goal Than earthly triumphs for the human soul.
They are not dead—they are not dead, I say, These men whose mortal forms are in the sod. A grand Advance-Guard marching on its way, Their Souls move upwards to salute their God! While to their comrades who are in the strife They cry, ‘Fight on! Death is the dawn of life.’
We had forgotten all the depth and beauty And lofty purport of that old true word Deplaced by pleasure—that old good word _duty_. Now by its meaning is the whole world stirred. These men died for it; for it, now, we give, And sacrifice, and serve, and toil, and live. From out our hearts had gone a high devotion For anything. It took a mighty wrath— Against great evil to wake strong emotion, And put us back upon the righteous path. It took a mingled stream of tears and blood To cut the channel through to Brotherhood.
That word meant nothing on our lips in peace: We had despoiled it by our castes and classes. But when this savage carnage finds surcease A new ideal will unite the masses. And there shall be True Brotherhood with men— The Christly Spirit stirring earth again.
For this our men have suffered, fought, and died. And we who can but dimly see the end Are guarded by their spirits glorified, Who help us on our way, while they ascend. They are not dead—they are not dead, I say, These men whose graves we decorate to-day.