Part 2

And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say You've come into your own and come to stay! The Promised Land is yours, but what is more, The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store. You wandered from Judea, but why care? Because your home is here as well as there; And we would miss you just as much, I vum, As those who wait you in Capernaum; For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

No more, thank God! will Infidels profane Jerusalem. For centuries the stain Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand Upon the Altars of the Holy Land. But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled, And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore The Holy City: _yours_ forevermore.

ENGLAND

O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length. Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force; Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course; Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride, Colossus-like, the struggles that betide-- While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun, To sap thy power--undo what thou hast done-- Of what avail will all thy efforts be Against the tottering walls of Tyranny? And to what purpose will have lived thy men Who won imposing fame with sword or pen? And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?

PREPAREDNESS

The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight; He flies _on foot_ when danger is in sight; His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches. The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey To feline foragers who slink that way. The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head And lets his monoplane and rudder be Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.

Ostriches should Carry Their Eggs in a Basket And use their Feathers For Dusting over the Desert.

The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl: He works while others sleep, the sly old owl! And stores up food, against the rainy day, In secret nooks, from forest thieves away. When winter comes, or when besieged by foes, Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose And ridicules starvation: he's immune! While others, shiftless, sing another tune. The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared In times of stress because he is prepared.

Improvident Nuts Should Tear a Leaf From the Squirrel's Diary.

A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,-- When, rushing madly, "late again," there came The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame For choosing her position, I would say, Because the Engine had the Right of Whey. The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail. But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled? She heeded not the sign and thus was killed.

Heifers with Unprotected Flanks should not Invite Rear-guard Actions.

The Busy Bee improves the shining hours And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers. When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill, He _hivernates_, but lives in clover still. While Famine stalks without, his Home, _Sweet_ Home Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome.

He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells. A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee And fortified against Emergency.

A Bee's Ears Contain no Wax And he Saves his Combings Against the Baldness of Old Age.

The Mule is well equipped but lacks the _mind_; His strategy is in his heels, behind. If pointed wrong, his practice is not dreaded, But kick he will, no matter how he's headed. With foresight lacking, hindsight to the fore, He'll be just simple Mule forevermore; Without the range or sight he'll blaze away And thwart his purpose with his brazen bray. If well-directed effort were his cult No fortress could withstand his catapult.

A Mule should Conserve His Ammunition and Not Shoot-off his Mouth.

The Burglar, have you noticed? never troubles To look for petty loot in obscure hovels. He packs his kit and steals adown the road To Gaspard Moneybags' renowned abode. He knows the house-plan ("inside" dope, no doubt) And when he's _in_, old Moneybags is _out_. But Jimmy does not dent the window-sash; He enters _thru the door_ and gets the cash. Prepared? Well, yes! He knew just where to look, For Nora hung the key upon the hook.

Team-work is The Handmaiden Of Efficiency.

It pays to be Prepared, you see, and so The Snail in Armored Car goes safe, tho' slow; And Alligators in their Coats of Mail Withstand assaults where those, defenceless, fail. The Tortoise totes his Caripace around And dwells in safety where his foes abound; While Wasps, with poisoned javelins, defend Successfully their offspring to the _end_. A Sheep with ramparts has no thought of fear, But guards his buttress when his foes appear, And any Skunk can frighten and harass An Army with Asphyxiating Gas.

THE FUGITIVE KISS

How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean, (The dear, old gate that never gave away The loving nothings we were wont to say) From day to day, And sometimes after dark; She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen.

But I was shy! And while I longed to taste The nectar of her lips, I was afraid To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid: But I essayed! And this is what I drew-- "There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!"

What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam, And old man Jones was meaner than a cur; So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her And didn't stir Until they came: and then I kissed them _all_ Good-bye and _beat it home_.

_NEW_ MEXICAN NATIONAL ANTHEM

My Country vast and grand, Sweet Montezuma Land, My Stingareé. Land of the Knife and Gun, Villa and Scorpion; Land of the Evil One I weep for thee!

Smallpox and Rattlesnakes Lurk in thy Cactus brakes, And Yellow Jack. Spiders and Centipedes Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds: To cure thy crying needs, Call Diaz back.

Tarantula and Flies Poison your lands and skies: Behold your graves! Carranza's waving beard By Pancho's Band is feared, And will be till he's sheared Or dyes or shaves.

Horned Toads and Vampire Bats, Gilas and Mountain Cats, Where'er you go!

Buzzards and Vultures reign Over a million slain; And Mescal is the bane Of Mexico.

O, Land of Chili con Carne and Obregon, Let murders cease! Keep Freedom's fires aglow Where La Frijólés grow; Throw up your Sombrero And Keep the Peace!

LOVE

I

Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire: We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill; Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire Till Passion be consumed, but not until.

II

Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent-- His quiver empty and his bow unstrung-- And peers into the pleasing Past, content To live, unmoved, his memories among.

STRONGARM'S WATERLOO

_Some_ drive! From tee to green in one: par, three! That's putting proper English on, you see! And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up To easy putting distance from the cup. Who is this man? Professional, no doubt! He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out; And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks, A new low record for the Piedmont Links. See with what confidence he wends his way The Fairway thru to make his hole out play! The Gallery, expectant, follows thru To see the Champion go down in _two_. Then to the ball he makes his last address, (The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess) And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow. Alas for human frailty! See it flit Across the green into the sandy pit! The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware! While he invoked the Deity in prayer. And then he played his third, but topped the sphere, The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

A halo hung around the Stranger's head It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead, For what he said, in type is not displayed Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal! The Player loses all his self-control And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din, When Caddie trails the ball and _kicks it in_!

Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks The weary Golfers on their inward treks; And close beside, beneath the porch's shade, The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade And other cheering drinks, within the law; But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say, If serving one's country deserves any praise: Two years at the front, then an arm shot away! And this is my "cross" in reward for those days. But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains: Until France is free we must fight: every one!

Of course I'll go back to the trenches again: My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound; Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground. I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top, The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm, With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop: For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm!

France needs every son, be they crippled or strong, To rid our fair land of the murderous horde: So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along! And fight till the Glory of France is restored! Our women are outraged, our children enslaved; Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath! We can _never_ turn back, so be it engraved On our spears and escutcheons,--_Vengeance or Death_!

WAR

Down by the village runs the stream Once placid, now a raging flood: Behold it, by the day's last gleam Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.

The Chapel bell has tolled its last; The trees are bare, tho this be Spring: Death's shroud is on the village cast, And Ruin reigns o'er everything.

A grist of carnage clogs the Mill, And shells have razed the quondam homes: Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill, Whose cellars are but catacombs.

Beyond the village, Refugees Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief, Or, _gassed_, implore on bended knees For death, despairing of relief.

With bayonets and faces set The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led, Present a gruesome parapet,-- Thus, _still defending_, tho they're dead.

SONG OF THE SAMSONS

We are Samsons, Biff! Boom! Bang! Here to pot the Potsdam Gang. If Bad Bill is found in Metz, We'll not vouch for what he gets! If in Essen he is caught, Good Night! Kultur, Him und Gott! Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint When he finds his Empire _ain't_!

To our Sweethearts we said "Knit," We must go and do our Bit! How d'ye do, Pierrot? Pierrette? We are friends of Lafayette! Wait until our Drive begins,-- Bill, you'll suffer for your sins! Sick 'em, Prince! We'll tie the fuse Onto Frederich Wilhelm's shoes.

When we occupy Cologne-- Phew! How big and strong you've grown! We will paint each shop and lodge With bright red in camouflage! Then to Carlsbad we will swing; Need the baths like everything! Frauleins leave your fears behind; We don't war on womankind!

We are filled with fire and zeal: Watch us pick the locks to Kiel! We are coming to our own In Lorraine across the Rhone! When our Flocks of Eaglets fly-- Dunder! Blitzen! Bill, Good-bye! Beaks of Steel and Claws of Lead-- Sun eclipsed! The Geezer's dead.

CHORUS

O, you U Boats, That for U! We slipped thru you; How d'y' do? Hindenberg? Ach, let him rant! He won't stop us _'cause he can't_! Zepps and Taubs are falling down; Butcher Bill will lose his crown; Watch your step, you Horrid Hun, You can't _goosestep_ when you _run_!

Hooray for the crimson, white and blue! 'Rah for Old Glory! _Chapeau bas vous!_ 'Rah for the Tri-Color! We're at home In _la belle_ France by the _eau de_ Somme; Hooray for our Allies true and brave! We'll all sweep thru like a tidal wave Over the _top_ in a mighty Drive-- And never stop while the HUNDS survive!

SIX DAYS

O, the comfort we feel When we finish a meal Consisting of rice cakes and whey; Because beyond question There's no indigestion At the end of a Meatless day.

When the "buck" dough doth rise From y'East to the skies And hot griddled pancakes--oh, say! With sausages frying There's no use denying Your welcome, O Wheatless day.

When the house is afrost Without fuel: its cost Is more than we're able to pay: With our hearts all aglow We can thaw ice or snow Making light of a Heatless day.

When there's discord with wife There's a shadow on life That once was so sunny and gay; But billing and cooing Subordinate stewing At the end of a Sweetless day!

When will beefsteak and ham Not be sold by the gram? How long will these high prices stay? When the bad Profiteers Show contrition and tears At the dawn of a Cheatless day.

When our Soldiers in France Do their Indian dance And scalp all the Huns in the fray, The Kaiser will holler, With rope for a collar, At the end of his Ruthless day!

A PROTEST

While now 'tis meet to eat fish, eggs and maize, _Vice_ meat and wheat whene'er we dine or sup, So be it! but this protest I would raise-- In spite of warnings--veal keeps bobbing up!

A PRAYER

O Sun and Skies, that Hoover o'er our Fields Where Grains implanted lie, and Silos stand,-- Pour out thy Warmth and Rains till Hunger yields Thruout the World to our blest _Fodder_land!

SINCE THE LITTLE ONE CAME

I seem to have taken a new lease on life Since the little one came; I've lost the old grouch, and I say to my wife, Do you think I'm to blame Because I have changed in my feelings towards you Since the Little One came? The furnace, 'tis true, gave me something to do, But I think it a shame That some tiny tie like the Little One here (How is Snooks for a name?) Was not sooner left on our doorstep, my dear!

The Store takes my time, but a very small part,-- It's all over at four! I've cut Clancy's out and have made a new start; All my cronies are sore! But what do I care? I have mended my ways, So I rush from the Store And hasten back home where the Little One plays On the ruggèd hall floor, And pick him up quick (O, how pretty he looks!) Without shutting the door; So anxious I am to caress little _Snooks_.

The chafing-dish chafes and the Joy-car is sore; We have given them up! The Two-step and Bridge are tabooed evermore; There is Joy in our Cup! We've cut out the movies and dining about For our own modest sup; And billiards and golfing, I've cut them both out! As I did to the Hup. With playthings and drum (and a ruppy, tup, tup!) Loaded up like a Krupp, I beat it to Snooky,--our _English Bull Pup_.

RUN ALONG, LITTLE GIRL!

Run along, Little Girl! for it's bed-time now: Your Dollies are sleepy and poor old Bow-wow Is weary and lonesome, curled up in a heap-- 'Twould take little rocking to put him to sleep! Your Teddy Bear's growling: or is it a snore? Perhaps he objects to his bed on the floor? So pick up your treasures and when prayers are said-- Run along, Little Girl, and climb in to bed!

Run along, Little Girl! The Sandman is here; You've crowded too much into one day, I fear! Poor, little, tired Girlie, you've worked at your play Till the bloom of your cheeks has faded away. To-morrow, again, you can sit by the fire And dress all your Dollies in gala attire. Say, Good Night! to your thimble, needle and seams; Run along, Little Girl, and sweet be your dreams!

Run along, Little Girl, and cover up tight! There's nothing to harm you, no spooks in the night Nor Bogeymen glaring when you are awake; For they're _bad_ little girls that Bogeymen take.

To-morrow Bow-wow can be hitched to your sled And draw you to Grandma's to see Piggie fed; No harm can befall you when Mother is near; Run along, Little Girl, and God bless you, Dear!

A RETROSPECT

Picture a Home with love aglow and laughter Reverberating from each joist and rafter; A sweet-faced Mother kissing you "Good Night"! With "Go to sleep! lest Santa Claus take fright And dashes by--leaving no books or toys For naughty, wide-eyed, little girls and boys." Then see her tip-toe down the stairs, and trim The tree--a toy on ev'ry outstretched limb; The rocking-horse and wagon at the base, And candy-stockings in the big fireplace: For thus we retrospect to show, no other Would scheme and work and "fabricate" like Mother To make our Christmas Day a grand fruition, And keep the secret of its sweet tradition.

THE EAGLE SCREAMS

We have arrived! America is First! Here Freedom cradled; here its pæan burst Upon the ears of nations, near and far Till Light of Freedom is the Guiding Star Thruout the world; though Thraldom still obscures The Guiding Star where Tyranny endures. 'Twas ever thus till Boston's "Reb" array Upset King George's teapot in the Bay, And Pegasus, whom we Revere, astride His high-bred hobby, warned the countryside. Before that time the Briton played the game Of _pour la tea_ or Golf (its proper name). With confidence and brassie nerve, methinks, Until they struck a Bunker on our links That thwarted all their prowess--'pon my soul! And left them groggy at the nineteenth hole. But still they puttered 'round and drank our rum Till Washington's avenging time had come; When, with his army, steeled at Valley Forge, He, George the First, uncrowned the other George, And all the "red-breasts," from our eyries shooed Where now the Bird of Freedom guards his brood.

THE SERVICE STAR

The stars are agleam in their azurine field, Diffusing effulgence afar; But magnitude, lustre and fixedness yield To the glorious Service Star.

In aureate setting, a pendant aglare, Is the radiant Service Star; That blazes with fire like a rare solitaire, A gift to the Valkyr of War.

Protect thou our treasure, O, Valkyr! Restore Our Jewel so priceless! and bar From Valhalla's Dungeons, where Death's torrents pour, Our sanctified Service Star!

SOME DAY

Some day when the war is ended And we sail from France away, With sorrow and longings blended, Back home to America; And we live once more in Blighty A thousand years in a day, In the Land of God Almighty Where the Old Folks watch and pray: Some day, when we hit the pillow Again on a box-spring bed, As snug as an armadillo With his shell-protected head; When bugles refrain from tooting, And noises of battle stop; When victory ends recruiting, Or charging Over the Top: _Some_ day! when we're thru with fighting And the beaten Hun retreats; When the Cooties cease from biting And we sleep between the sheets!

THE CRUISE OF THE SEA SERPENT

And now behold the Merchant Submarine! Only its peeking periscope is seen, But what a cyclorama it reveals To those below! Thru surging seas it steals And vies with dolphins, porpoises and sharks To keep apace with brigantines and barks; And, tho itself unseen, it's proud to show To what low depths a submarine can go. The Cyclops sees as well by night as day; Its father, Neptune, gives it right of way: Amphibious, it rides the Ocean's crest, Or in its sunken Gardens takes its rest. This new-type boat we designate as It Because no other pronoun seems to fit. No water-laden craft could be a He, Nor one unspoken could be rated She. The Germans call it _unter_: O. U. Cargo! They aim to close the bar on the embargo. Beneath the waves no lurching doth it feel But speeds its course upon an even keel. With duplex engines and a double crew, (It's "manned" by mermaids when it's hid from view). It scoffs at dangers, tho they lurk around, And shuts its _eye_ to perils that abound. There's scant spare space, but still its ribs enfold A priceless cargo in its shallow hold. Past hostile ships into a neutral haven, It comes up smiling with all flags a wavin'.

But now these "Cargo Craft" throw off disguise And cut our neutral throats: it's no surprise That dastards, who as "scraps of paper" rate Their solemn Treaties, would thus lie in wait And murder innocents without emotion, Making a shambles of the outraged Ocean. Now lashed to fury, see the waves rebel And sweep these Prussian Pirates down to Hell! No longer neutral the Avenging Sword Is in our hands to smite the Hun-hound horde. The God of Joshua, in righteous wrath Will, in its flight thru empyrean path, Command the Sun to stop: it is His will! Till _Kultur_ be effaced--and not until.

AMERICA

America, Crusader in the Cause Of Liberty, before thy shrine we pause And offer grateful prayer that thou art Right In making demonstration of thy Might. Without a thought of Conquest doth thou draw Thine honored sword for Liberty and Law, That Nations of a common tongue, tho weak, May gain the Peace with Freedom that they seek; And occupy again, when battles cease, Their places in the Firmament of Peace. Fight on! Defender of the Cause! till Truth Shall banish Tyranny and Wars forsooth, And throttle _Kultur_ and its godless School, Till Teutons, purged, obey the Golden Rule!

LIFE AND LOVE

Life is the Echo of the Buried Past; A Soul reclaimed, an Atom born anew: Its fire burns on, tho flickering at the last, And finds its grand fulfillment, Love, in you.

LIFE IN DEATH

Why should we dread the Messenger of Death? Who comes as friend when sufferings beset, And gives surcease of pain with final breath So that Life leaves, rejoiced, without regret.

GERMANY

O, Hun, from what low beast didst thou descend? That thou shouldst have the lust to kill and rend; The bestial passion to enjoy the groans Of suffering victims, while you crunch their bones Or gouge their eyes, that mutely plead in vain For quick oblivion and ease from pain? Of ponderous cast and savage mien, what teat, With Hatred filled and Passion's fiery heat, Reared thee more wolf than man? ill-bred,--a curse To thine own kind, and to the Universe!

ITALY