Chapter 2
The maple leaf is stained with red, Deeper than autumn's dye; On foreign fields our noble dead Their valor testify.
Cut off, out-numbered, ten to one, By wolfish German pack Our men like heroes fought and won, They kept the Teutons back.
They held their post, they saved the day, Those young lions from the West; What higher tribute can we pay, "They fought like Britain's best."
When reinforcements came at last, Then woe betide the Huns, From man to man the word was passed "We must retake the guns."
Mid rifle ball and poison bomb, Shrapnel and shrieking shell, And all the hell of Kaiserdom, They charged, while hundreds fell.
With fearless eye and ringing cheer They made that wild advance, For life was cheap and glory dear, Those bloody days in France.
O, life is short to him who gives Long years for selfish pay; In righteous cause, the soldier lives A lifetime in a day.
THE CANADIAN ARMY
The news, "the Old Land's in it," Stirred us one August morn, Then waited not a minute The fearless British born. They were the first to offer To die for England's name Scorning the shirking scoffer, Who would not play the game.
But when the German Kaiser Of victories could brag, Canadians got wiser And rallied round the flag. The Orangemen, stout-hearted, The cheery lads in green, When once the ball was started In khaki garb were seen.
A regiment of Tories, A regiment of Grits, Discarded party worries To give the Kaiser fits. Battalions of free thinkers and regiments of Jews And some of water drinkers, And some that hit the booze.
A regiment of Chinese, A regiment of Yanks, A regiment with fine knees And bare and brawny shanks, A regiment of teachers Who laid aside the birch, And one of sons of preachers, A credit to the Church.
A regiment of Colonels, Who couldn't get a sit, (To judge by their externals They're feeling fine and fit); A regiment of slackers, A regiment of thieves, And one of bold bushwhackers, All wearing maple leaves.
Battalions, too, of Frenchmen, The breed that never yields, Are making splendid trench men, On Belgium's bloody fields. Battalions from the prairies Now man the smoking tubes; From London and St. Marys, A regiment of rubes.
Thus, to defend the nation, They rallied to a man, Our fighting population So cosmopolitan. Not one from danger blenches, They vie in skill and pluck And when they reach the trenches, We call them all Canuck.
FIGHT OR PAY
October, 1915
The cause of Freedom needs our help, The Old Land's in the fray, It's up to every lion's whelp To either fight or pay. The bloody Turk and savage Hun Still ravish, burn and slay, Each loyal son must man a gun, Or stay at home and pay.
Our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives, They nurse, and knit, and pray, Let men forego their selfish lives, And either fight or pay. The call is clear to sacrifice Our life, our purse, our play; Ere Honor dies, let us arise And either fight or pay.
"England expects from every man His duty on this day." 'Twas thus Lord Nelson's message ran Ere he began the fray. Shall we our noble heritage, See crumbling down like clay, This goodly age, a blotted page, And neither fight nor pay?
Nay! While our British blood runs red, Let those refuse who may, We'll heed what mighty Nelson said On old Trafalgar day, From cottage, castle, palace, hall, We'll come without delay, At duty's call, and stake our all, To fight, or pay, or pray.
=Rhymes For Children=
HUNTING THE WERE-WOLF
The jungle law is broken; From forest, field and plain, The beasts and birds have spoken, "The traitor must be slain," The surly bear comes growling, From out his lonesome den; He hears the were-wolf howling, Athirst for blood of men.
The fierce war eagle screeches Across the Channel deep, His scream the lion reaches And rouses him from sleep; The busy beaver hiding In far off northern wood, The mighty bull moose, striding In stately solitude.
The humpy, bumpy cattle, The tiger from his lair, Go down into the battle Beside the timid hare. The elephant and camel, The ostrich and emu, Weird things, both bird and mammal, And old man Kangaroo.
All vow, by fur and feather, Each with one purpose filled, To work and fight together, Until the were-wolf's killed. Meanwhile in war's arena, Unmoved by tears and groans, The buzzard and hyena Pick clean the victim's bones.
JOHNNIE'S GROUCH
'Cause brother Ben has gone to fight Across the sea so far, I like to sit around at night And read about the war, But when I think me and my chums Are fighting Fritz in France, My ma asks if I've done my sums; A feller gets no chance.
And when I'm marching proudly back With fifty captured Huns, My dad will say "retire Jack". That's how they spike my guns. My teacher's a conscriptionist, She calls me "Johnnie dear," But backs it with an iron fist And so I volunteer.
I got kept in at school one day For lessons not half learned, And when dad asked, "Why this delay?" I said I'd been interned. And when our test exams came out And mine were extra bad, I said, "We needn't fuss about A scrap of paper, dad."
When sister's chap comes round at night, And pa seems in a rage, Ma only smiles; she knows all right, It's just dad's camoflage. And when I entertain this beau While Sis puts on her dress, Sometimes I get a dime, you know; That's strategy, I guess.
My dad is getting rather stout, And hates to mow the lawn; But when he gets the mower out, First thing he knows I'm gone; But when I've trouble with my pa No matter what it's for, I make an ally of my ma, And then I win the war.
THE TRENCH THAT FRITZ BUILT
This is the trench that Fritz built.
This is the Hun who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the gun that killed the Hun who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer's only son, who mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer, weary and worn, who raised the son, who mans the gun, that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is she, who in youth's bright morn, was wed to the man, now weary and worn, 'tis she to whom the son was born, who in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn, who drives a car with a tooting horn, and laughs at the farmer weary and worn, and his wife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoes and beets and corn, because the son, who to them was born, is in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still manning the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the maid who treats with scorn the shifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and his shining car with the tooting horn, but honors the farmer weary and worn, and his wife who helps him hoe the corn, and milk the cows in the early morn, for she loves the son who to them was born, who in front of the battle all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built!
=Nursery Rhymes=
=Up-to-Date=
TEN LITTLE SLACKERS
Ten little slackers standing in a line, One went to U. S., then there were nine. Nine little slackers out for a skate, One broke his leg and then there were eight. Eight little slackers playing odd and even, Got in a mix up and then there were seven. Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks, One got dyspepsia, then there were six. Six little slackers only half alive, One got married and then there were five. Five little slackers were such a bore The fool killer got one, then there were four. Four little slackers out on a spree, Auto turned turtle, and then there were three. Three little slackers in a canoe, Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two. Two little slackers, one was a Hun, He got imprisoned, then there was one. One little slacker, war nearly won, He got conscripted, then there were none. One little, two little, three little slackers, Four little, five little, six little slackers, Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers, Ten little slacker men.
* * * * *
Jack Sprat can eat no fat, His wife can eat no lean, Because upon their platter now No meat is ever seen.
Make a cake, make a cake, my good man, Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran, Tick it and pick it and mark it with B, And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.
Little deeds and mortgages, Little bonds and stocks, Help amid financial storms To keep us off the rocks.
Little loads of stove wood, Little jags of coal, Make our pocket books look sick, And put us in the hole.
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, Eating his whole wheat pie, He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum, And he said, I don't like this old pie.
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper, What did he sing for? White bread and butter; But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread, With oleomargarine on it to spread.
Farmer Dingle had a little pig, Not very little and not very big; It weighed two hundred or a few pounds over And brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover. Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied, And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried, "Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he, "They need," said he, "Good feed," said she, So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.
One little man went to battle, One little man stayed at home, One little man got white bread and butter, One little man got none, One little man cried see, see, see, You'll eat brown bread Till the war is done.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son, Stole a pig and away he run, "High cost of meat I've got you beat," Said Tom, while making his retreat.
Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill, And fought on land and water, Till Nick fell down and lost his crown, And Bill went tumbling after.
There was a crooked man Who wore a crooked smile, And built a crooked railroad O'er many a crooked mile, He got some crooked statesmen To play his crooked games, And they all got crooked titles Before their crooked names.
* * * * *
Sing a song of sixpence, Country going dry, Four and twenty booze shops Selling no more rye.
When the bars were open, Whiskey had its fling, Now we ride the water cart, Along with George, our king.
Once dad, in the bar room, Counted out his money, Weary mother sat at home, Patching clothes for sonny.
Now dad's in the garden Wearing out his clothes, Money in his pocket, Bloom all off his nose.
=Miscellaneous=
BEDLAM
October, 1914
"The world is mad, my masters," The poet had the facts To prove this sweeping statement, In man's punk-headed acts; For since the day when Adam Partook of the wrong tree, We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered; "What fools these mortals be".
Take out your horse or auto, And drive the country roads, And see the fields and orchards Bearing their precious loads. Old Mother Earth produces With lavish hand and free, But half is lost or ruined By man's stupidity.
Ten thousand tons of apples Will surely go to waste While poor folk in the cities Will hardly get a taste. We take good wheat and barley And manufacture bums, Whose wives and little children Are starving in the slums.
The man that's poor as woodwork, And nearly always broke, Can somehow find a nickel To puff away in smoke; While those who have the money To eat and drink their fills, Are sure to over-do it, And run up doctor bills.
If, when the times are peaceful I kill one man, by heck! They'll call it bloody murder, And hang me by the neck. In war-time he's a hero, Who sends through air or sea A bomb to blow a thousand Into Eternity.
And so, dear gentle reader, You see, by all the rules, That earth's whole population Except ourselves are fools.
THE CERTAINTIES
When icy blasts blow fierce and wild, Cutting the face like steel, And summer's heart is trodden down 'Neath winter's iron heel, It's all a part of Nature's plan, So stay and play the game; Next Spring will bring the violets, And roses just the same.
When Pharaoh's lean ill-favored kine Have grazed the pastures brown. And, on a parched and starving world The brazen sun glares down; Though Canaan's forests, fields and farms, Are scorched, as with a flame, There's food in Joseph's granaries In Egypt just the same.
When Pharaoh makes the task more hard For overburdened hands, And stubble fields refuse the straw His tale of bricks demands; What matter if our little lives Go out in fear and shame? The waters of the mighty Nile Flow onward just the same.
When, at the front, to bar the way, The Red Sea waters stand, And Egypt's hosts are close behind, A fierce relentless band; Intent their firstborn to avenge, Their Hebrew slaves to claim: Look up, and see the pyramids, Firm standing, just the same.
When human ghouls hell's lid uplift To plunder, burn and kill, And Truth seems driven from her throne, Say to your heart, "Be still!" Don't think that Freedom's day is done, And Honor but a name, For right still reigns and planets gleam In Heaven just the same.
THE FRIENDLY SPIES
A Tale of Camp Borden
November, 1916
The main camping ground of the Huron Indians was near where Camp Borden is now situated.
Where soldiers build their camp fires, At night there gather 'round The spirits of the Hurons From Happy Hunting ground, No sentry hears their footsteps, They need no countersigns; As silent as the moonlight, They pass within the lines.
Fierce shine their dusky faces As through the tents they glide, Once more they smell the war paint And know a warrior's pride; The white man's modern weapons Their ghostly fingers feel, The guns so swift and deadly, The long sharp blades of steel.
They nod to one another, Nor knew so wild a joy Since, leagued with the Algonquins, They fought the Iroquois; Among the sleeping soldiers They pass the silent night, And nudge, and smile, and whisper, "White brother make big fight."
When shafts of light are breaking Across the eastern sky, They wrap their mantles 'round them, And breathe a soft "Good-bye", Then vanish like the shadows That lurk among the trees, The sentry hearing only The sighing of the breeze.
JACK CANUCK TO UNCLE SAM
April, 1916
Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy, All your pockets with cartridges cram; The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy, Seem to frighten you some, Uncle Sam. You once were the first to get ready, The most eager in Liberty's fight, Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm and steady, When you battled for justice and right.
Time was when each star in Old Glory Shone for freedom all round the wide world. The winds and the waves told the story Wheresoever its folds were unfurled; But now your good rifle is rusty, All your work of long years is undone. Old Glory, bedraggled and dusty, Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.
There once was a time, Uncle Sammy, When the honor of sister or wife, E'en that of a poor negro mammy, You'd defend, Uncle Sam, with your life. But now, what's the matter I wonder, You see womanhood treated like junk, And think but of guarding your plunder: Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?
It seems that your head isn't level, With your Wilsons, and Bryans and Fords, You let things all go to the devil, And protect your poor people with words. It can't be the killing that vexes, And prevents you from getting your gun, You're lynching men now, down in Texas For one tenth that the Kaiser has done.
SAMMY
April, 1918
Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow, That Duffeldorf blighter was running his show? The fellow who hinted that Sammy was slack, With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back; For Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong, ('Twas Somebody's blunder that held him so long) He's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came, The chap that is yellow has some other name.
This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race, He makes himself handy in any old place: Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song, Or lick any German who happens along: A single hand talker, as good as the best, A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest, A long distance hiker, who never goes lame; He's not any piker whatever the game.
There's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun, He'll sure be a sticker when facing the Hun; Can camp in a palace, or live in a tent, Drink wine from a chalice, or eat meat in Lent; Sweet tongued to the ladies and kind to the kids, Condemns things to Hades, when down by the skids; At home on the river, plantation or farm, Sometimes a high liver who does himself harm.
Abstemious, very, when prices are high, He learns to be merry without any pie; An expert at poker, with money to spare, A down and out broker who plays solitaire; An orator forceful, a whale to invent, O Sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent, Though late in the race, Sam, we wish you good luck, Come on, take your place, Sam, with Johnnie Canuck.
FRANCE TO COLUMBIA
November, 1916
Columbia, my sister, Republic great and free, When Liberty was threatened I looked in vain to thee; That hope was vain, my sister, You lost your greatest chance; Men live on lies in Utah, Men die for truth in France.
Columbia, my sister, You saw my blood run red, My sons and daughters murdered, The tears my orphans shed; You raised no voice in protest, To stop the Hun's advance; Men live at ease in Kansas, With hell let loose in France.
Columbia, my sister, Your children you have seen, Drowned in the cruel ocean By German submarine; But baseball is important, The theatre and dance, And pleasure rules in Texas While horror reigns in France.
Columbia, my sister, In sordid love of gain Your vultures and hyenas Wax fat upon the slain; The nations, sorrow stricken, Receive your careless glance, And wealth in Massachusetts Means poverty in France.
Columbia, my sister, I know your heart is right, Though on your head has fallen This hellish Hunnish blight; I love you still, my sister, And warn you, lest perchance The Huns may rule Wisconsin When driven out of France.
JIM'S SACRIFICE
Jim marched away one summer day To fight the boastful Hun, In khaki clad, as fine a lad As ever carried gun, No braver knight e'er went to fight, In shining coat of mail, In days of old, for love or gold, Or for the Holy Grail.
His aim was sure, his heart was pure, Like good Sir Galahad, He played the game when hardships came His face was always glad, Until, by chance, somewhere in France, He saw a "Hometown Sun," He read one page, then in a rage He strafed it like a Hun.
The girl he loved had faithless proved, And German slacker wed; That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke, He wished that he were dead. He who had been so straight and clean, And every fellow's chum, Now lived apart with hardened heart, And soaked himself with rum.
'Mid rats and mice and fleas and lice He spent his days and nights; Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood, He fought a hundred fights; His faith was lost, the angel host Of Mons he didn't see; No Comrade White beheld his plight, With loving sympathy.
The devil strip, where bullets zipp, The narrow neutral band Where man to man they fight and plan To win that "No Man's Land"; Here Jim would go to hunt the foe, He thought it only fun, And that day lost that couldn't boast Another slaughtered Hun.
His awful deeds so say the creeds, Jim's bright young manhood marred; His health was sound, he got no wound, But sin his spirit scarred. Some lost their health, some lost their wealth, Of all war took its toll, Some lost their life in bloody strife, Jim only lost his soul.
THE ORGY OF THOR
The war god calls, whate'er befalls His orders must be filled, Though work may stop in mine and shop, And farms may lie untilled.
At his command each human hand Must toil to pay the price In coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat, Oil, cotton, corn or rice.
From pole to pole he takes control Of land, and air, and tide, Then death and dearth fill all the earth, And hell's gate opens wide.
Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands No white man ever saw, Bring all their spoil, with endless toil, To fill the monster's maw.
O'er ice and snow the huskies go, Beneath the northern star, And gather toll, a scanty dole, To pay the god of war.
From out the States go mighty freights Of cotton, corn and oil; From West to East, to feed the beast, The people save and toil.
The West's astir, the binders whirr Around the settler's shack; The threshers hum, lest winter come Before the wheat's in sack.
The bullocks strain on loaded wain, Piled high with bales of wool, A season's clip from shed to ship; The cargo must be full.
The drivers swear, the bulls by pair Plunge panting through the dust, Like things accurst they die of thirst The war gods say they must.
Where battle fields dread harvests yield The war god's revels be, Where blood runs red, he counts the dead, And shrieks and howls in glee.
With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs The precious crimson tide; He'll drink his fill, nor rest until His blood lust's satisfied.
MOTES AND BEAMS
We condemn, with hot curses, the Hun For his piracy, perjury, pride, For his nameless atrocities done, For the ten million victims that died. Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies, When the day of our victory comes, While pale children, with piteous cries, Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.