Chapter 3
We despite the degenerate Yank With his blood-spattered idol of gold, Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank, And political pottage has sold. Then we send our poor boys to the war With a prayer that they keep themselves clean, And we purchase a shining new car, Praying harder for cheap gasoline.
We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks; They must learn to be true to their friends; They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks, Using war for their own selfish ends. But our grafters their pockets may fill, While valiantly waving the flag, Caring nothing who settles the bill, If they only get off with the swag.
We abhor the unspeakable Turk, For his orgies of murder and shame, His detestable devilish work Done in honor of Allah's fair name; Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed, While afar off the publican stood, But forget the Creator has made All the children of men of one blood.
NURSE CAVELL
November, 1915
This world has spots made holy By deeds or lives of love, Has shrines where high and lowly Alike, their hearts may prove; This age, when faith might falter Mid shriek of shot and shell, Has added one more altar, The grave of Nurse Cavell.
She cared for sick and dying, Knew neither friend nor foe, She spent her strength in trying To heal a neighbor's woe. For deeds by love inspired The Kaiser's vengeance fell On form so frail and tired, Heroic Nurse Cavell.
What though the Prussian kultur Now threatened her with death; She met the screaming vulture In simple, quiet faith, "I am an English woman, I love my country well, But must not hate a foeman," Said kindly Nurse Cavell.
She faced the guns with even, Calm, fearless, English eyes, And then, her foes forgiven, Made willing sacrifice; Thus, at the midnight hour, In Prussian prison cell, Crushed by a tyrant's power, Died Christlike Nurse Cavell.
But when no more war legions In battles fierce are hurled, When, to remotest regions, Peace reigns throughout the world; Where'er beyond the waters The British peoples dwell Mothers will tell their daughters The tale of Nurse Cavell.
'TWAS EVER THUS
November, 1916
O preacher, prophet, martyr, sage, Whose message falls on heedless ears, Bethink that unrepentant age When Noah preached for six score years; See Israel to Baal bowed, The persecuting Pharisee, And all the loaves and fishes crowd Beside the sea of Galilee.
O patriot of humble birth, With heart to help a fellow man, To reconstruct the things of earth Upon a nobler, wiser plan; The curse that mars the lowly born Will dog your footsteps till your death, The proud Judeans' words of scorn, "No good thing comes from Nazareth."
O mother, when your son lies dead, You hate this cruel world of blood, You pay the price, with grief bowed head, The age-old price of motherhood. 'Twas thus Eve mourned o'er Abel's loss, Naomi grieved in tents of Shem, 'Twas thus she wept beside the cross Who bore a son in Bethlehem.
O soldier with the shattered breast, Beside the shell-swept Flanders road, The One who gives the weary rest Knows all the burden of your load. The anguished thirst, the bitter pain, A Father's face He could not see, The hate of man, sin's awful stain, He bore them all on Calvary.
EGO
The ego of the human race, The sordid love of self, We see it in life's hurried chase, The grafter's greed for pelf. The horror of the battle field, The killed, the maimed, the blind, The beaten foe, too proud to yield, The ego of mankind.
The ego of the human race, The poison in our blood, The lying tongue, the double face, Justice and Truth withstood. The heavy task, the scanty pay, The beggar with his bone, The rich young man who went away, The king upon his throne.
The ego of the human race, The subtle serpent's lie No toilsome years can e'er efface, "Ye shall not surely die." Eve still by serpent's word beguiled, The curse on Ham that fell, Poor outcast Hagar's starving child, Cities where Lot might dwell.
The ego of the human race, The toil each day brings in, The idlers in the market place, The sorrow and the sin; Bequeathed from pre-historic sire, In Turk and Teuton still, The ape's inordinate desire, The tiger's lust to kill.
FREEDOM
We're fighting now for liberty Where'er our armies are, We wouldn't want our king to be A Kaiser, or a Czar. We want no rabbi with his book, No priest in sable stole, For priest and rabbi ne'er can brook The freedom of the soul.
We must be free, to work, or play, Or loaf, just when we like, And if we get too little pay, Be free to go on strike: And if, perchance, we gain our goal, And wealth to us should come, We must be free to take our toll, From workman's scanty crumb.
We must be free to hit the booze That steals our children's bread, The cash that ought to buy them shoes, Pour down our necks instead. We must be free to come and go; No Russ nor Hun are we, There's nothing grander here below Than British liberty.
But when, from nations drowned in tears, For crimes by Kaiser done, The cry goes forth for volunteers To come and fight the Hun; We must be free at home to stay, While others take their chance "Of finding little homes of clay" In Flanders or in France.
TWENTY YEARS AFTER
November, 1917
Where men make bloody sacrifice, And pile the earth with slain, Kind Mother Nature ever tries To cover up the stain. 'Mid charnel of the tiger's den May pure white lilies blow, And on the graves of warlike men The peaceful daisies grow.
The grass is all the greener now Where men most fiercely strove, And maids may hear on Vimy's brow The cooing of the dove. Where cannon roared by night and day, And men in thousands fell, The sunny headed children play, And pick up bits of shell.
Where once raged war's infernal din, And bullets fell like rain The peaceful peasants gather in A hundred fold of grain; And where men plied the deadly steel, And blood ran red like wine, We see the holy sisters kneel Beside the rebuilt shrine.
And over on the rising ground The fresh young maples stand To mark the graves of those who found Death in a foreign land; Here women of the nameless woes, Still pray when day is done, That God will rest the souls of those Who strafed the hellish Hun.
FAITH
November, 1917
The soldier, when the war began, Presumed the cause was right, But didn't ask the campaign's plan; His duty was to fight. The child, with all things yet to prove, Still thinks the world is fair, While trusting in a mother's love, And in a father's care.
The patient 'neath the surgeon's knife Unconscious is, and still, The only hope to save his life Is in the doctor's skill. The farmer sows in faith his seed, And trusts the sun and rain, Meanwhile he fights the choking weed That grows among the grain.
The planets in their orbits roll, The seasons come and go, The angry seas own God's control, His care the sparrows know. But we, by pride made over bold, Face Providence unawed, And like the patriarch of old, Presume to question God.
Ten thousand prayers in discord rise From church and cloister dim, When will we cease our feeble cries, And trust the world to Him? 'Tis His the broken heart to bind, To heal the serpent's bite, The judge is He of all mankind, And shall He not do right?
EVERYBODY HELPING
March, 1917
If you want a fine new car, Do without, If you like a good cigar, Cut it out, Thrift will help to win the war, There's no doubt.
If you are too old to fight, You can pay, If you think war isn't right, You can pray, Help to crush the Kaiser's might As you may.
If you are a Tory gay, Or a Grit, Throw your politics away, Do your bit, War is now the game to play; You are it.
If you have good things to eat, Pack a box, If you are a maiden neat, Knit some socks, Keep the soldier's tired feet, Off the rocks.
Get a piece of land on spec, Plow and sow, There's a place for every peck, You can grow. Swat the Kaiser in the neck, Issue him a passage check Down below.
THE WORLD'S OVERDRAFT
May, 1917
On life's broad fields, whate'er we sow, 'Tis certain we shall reap; The watching scribes, above, below, Somewhere a record keep. The faithless church, the lying creed Teaching that wrong is right, The childless home, the heartless greed, The jealousy and spite.
The feasting, selfish, idle rich, The hungry, hardened poor, The drunkard lying in the ditch, The brothel's open door; Whate'er we do, where'er we dwell, Whate'er our names or creeds, They total up in heaven or hell, The sum of all our deeds.
We thought the race was to the swift, The battle to the strong, Like mariners with boat adrift, We heard the sirens' song, We put our trust in armies vast, In battleships and marts, We deemed but hoodoos of the past The prayers from human hearts.
So heavy grew the moral debt Of every class and rank, No further credit could we get At Satan's private bank. The wealth bestowed by sea and land We squandered in a day, The devil took our notes of hand, And now there's hell to pay.
The world will drown in blood and tears, And famine stalk abroad, 'Til men repent their sordid years And humbly call on God. This cruel war the Kaiser made, (The worst since Satan fell,) Will end when all the world has paid Its overdraft on hell.
SLACKERS
We condemn, as selfish slackers, Those not willing to enlist To oppose the Prussian Kultur And the Kaiser's iron fist, But they're not the only slackers, Those who will not go and fight. For every man's a slacker Who does less now than he might.
There are slackers in the pulpit, In the elder's cushioned pew, And all through the congregation There are slackers not a few. There are slackers in the workshop, There are slackers on the farm, And slackers down in Parliament Whose defeat would do no harm.
Some munition men are slackers, And some who store our food. While they dream of higher profits And of interest accrued. We condemn the youthful shirker And we say his heart's not right, But there's many an arrant slacker Not eligible to fight.
So let each and all get busy, If we would the Kaiser thrash. From the man who owns the millions To the girl who slings the hash, All the women busy knitting, All the men out hoeing beans, For the war may be decided By the work behind the scenes.
THE LOYAL BLACKS
August, 1917
Three years ago the war began, Three years ago to-day The Empire's call to every man Was either fight or pay. Some men the country well could spare Their clear-cut duty shun But all the Blacks have done their share To help defeat the Hun.
My brother Jim, who worked by spells (He had a lazy streak) Is busy now inspecting shells At forty bones a week. And Jack, of course, is rather young, He's just nineteen or so, And Tom had trouble with his lung About twelve years ago.
My brother Ben would like to fight, The Kaiser makes him wild, But if he went 'twould not be right, He has a wife and child. I cannot lease my farm and store, With prices soaring higher, If times keep good for two years more I think I can retire.
Although we didn't volunteer And learn the soldier's art, We hold some good positions here And bravely do our part, While some the khaki suits have donned, And in the trenches slave We put into a war loan bond Each dollar we can save.
But there are lots of husky chaps Could go as well as not, There's Arthur Mee and Joe perhaps, Paul Pierce and Barney Bott, And Peter Jones and Sam Delong, And Jack Smith's hired man, And Scotty Moss, and Wesley Strong, And Billy Barlow's Dan.
And Robert Green and Walter White, And others I could name; When these refuse to go and fight It is a burning shame; I think they should be forced to go, Conscription is the plan To catch these chaps so very slow And make them play the man.
THE TROUBLES OF TINO
War pot is still stewing, Not a sign of peace, Trouble now is brewing 'Round the shores of Greece; Tino needs our pity, Threatened by the Huns, Seaboard town and city Faced by British guns. If he helps the Germans Lose his job for life; If he favors Britain Has to square his wife. Holds no trumps nor aces, Cannot take a trick, Cards are all queen's faces, Tino's feeling sick. Tino never whistles, Neither does he sing, Bed of thorns and thistles; Who would be a king?
HAS THE WORLD GONE MAD?
December, 1916
What a lack of reason In this earthly throng! In and out of season Everything goes wrong; Over there in Europe Kaiser, king and czar, Raise a mighty flare up, Plunge a world in war.
Neither king nor kaiser Down in Mexico, Are the people wiser? Echo answers, "No!" There, contending factions Murder, pillage, burn; Plunder and exactions Everywhere you turn.
Has the world gone crazy? Are the men all fools? Is our thinking hazy, Spite of all our schools?
THE TREES
The wind that through the forest blows May scatter leaves and blossoms wide. The parent tree but firmer grows When by the tempest torn and tried.
The stately oak withstands the storm That rocks its boughs in fiercest strife; The winds that shake its sturdy form But give a deeper, stronger life.
The maple leaves are falling fast, The sugar groves look gaunt and grim, But sap will flow when winter's past, And sweetness course through every limb.
The mighty eucalyptus tree But sheds its bark at winter's call Its leaves retain their greenery, And yield a curing oil for all.
A seedling in the Maori's time, Now, toughened by a thousand gales, Straight stands the kauri in its prime, Fit mast for proudest ship that sails.
Drooping its weary fronds, the palm In sorrow stands on sun-baked plain Till comes, like blessed healing balm, The early and the latter rain.
The noble banyan dying lives, In youth 'twould shield a single man, In age its spreading shelter gives Shade for a prince's caravan.
No weaklings these, their roots deep down In Mother Earth retain their hold. To heaven they raise a leafy crown, Sound-hearted, loyal, earnest-souled.
WHO KNOWS
=The pessimist=
Our lot is cast in evil days We almost lose our faith in God, We cannot comprehend His ways, Nor recognize His chast'ning rod. To stem the Hun's relentless tread, His hymns of hate, his crimes of Cain We give our daily toll of dead, But wonder if 'tis all in vain.
=The Optimist=
Brave men must fight, brave men must fall, Whene'er a tyrant lifts his head; When Freedom sounds her battle call, We must not grudge our noble dead. E'en now the victor's shouts we hear, On blood bought hill, o'er shell-swept plain; The end of tyranny is near, Our struggle has not been in vain.
=The Socialist=
If, when our cheering shall have died, No more for sordid grain we plan, But shed the hoofs and horns of pride, And strive to help our fellow man, So each will get a fair return For labor done by hand or brain And none can take what others earn; The war will not have been in vain.
=The Anarchist=
If still the selfish creed we preach Of pleasure, ease and strife for gold; Employer, and employee, each Resentful, greedy, uncontrolled; Then poor men still will curse the great, And hellish hordes will rise again With hungry, hardened, Hunnish hate; This war will have been fought in vain.
AFTERWARDS
When the war shall have ceased with its sorrow, Its hunger, and horror, and hell, In the dawn of a brighter to-morrow, What tale will historians tell? Will the nations get records of glory, Of cowardice, courage or crime, When the sages record the true story, To ring down the decades of time?
We believe that some peoples now broken, And crushed by the Turk and the Hun Will arise from their darkness unspoken, And stand in the light of the sun. And it may be that Germans, grown wiser And taught at so fearful a cost, Will have hanged their contemptible Kaiser And regained the fair name they have lost.
We believe that the allies now fighting, And lavishing billions untold, Will have found, in the wrong that needs righting, A service far better than gold; That in bearing the load of another, In heeding the cry of the pained, That in staying the feet of a brother, Fresh strength for themselves will have gained.
And some lands that now cravenly study The getting of guerdons and gain, May have found their gold blasted and bloody, And tarnished by tears for the slain; And because they dishonoured their stations Were weak when they should have been strong, May be treated with scorn by the nations, A byword and hissing among.
So the scribe will set down in his pages The story the centuries tell, That, for sin, death is still the true wages, And broad the road leading to hell.
GERMAN SECURITIES FALL
The British guns have spoken And Bill may lose his crown, The German line is broken, And saur-kraut is down.
The gallant French are storming The Huns with iron hail; They've given Fritz a warning, And limburger is stale.
The Russ is westward pushing, Herding the Huns like sheep, Thus ends the big four flushing, And liverwurst is cheap.
King Victor's brave Italians Are driving back pell-mell The Austrian battalions And weiners will not sell.
The Belgians, too, are holding Their end up with the rest, They hear the Teutons scolding, Bologna's past its best.
Roumanians, and others, Who now are standing pat Will call the allies brothers When lager beer goes flat.
TROUBLE IN THE TRENCHES
The true story of the difficulty on the Russian front.
September, 1917
When Slav and Russ had raised a fuss, And sent their Czar a-kiting, Said Givinski to Blatherski, "We've done enough of fighting."
"I've got a cough," wheezed Killmanoff, "From working in the trenches, I'd rather fight a doggoned sight, Than put up with the stenches.
I want to quit and take a sit In some place clean and brighter, Let those who like come down the pike To strafe the German blighter."
"I've got the itch," growled Dirtovitch, "Bog spavin and lumbago." "I'm never dry," swore Goshallski, "I smell worse than a Dago."
"This cheese is high," grouched Buttinski, "No hungry rat would eat it." "This meat is tough," whined Ivanuff, "I think we ought to beat it."
"It makes me mad," stormed Hazembad, "The prevalence of vermin." "You've said it right," owned Gotabite, "I'm lousy as a German."
Said Takemoff, "Our lives are rough In these here blooming ditches, But mine's the worst by half a verst, Since some guy stole my breeches."
Their pay was back, their belts were slack, Each man his troubles blurted. With empty guns to face the Huns, Small wonder they deserted.
THE WORSHIPPERS
Wo Sing was just a heathen blind, A dull insensate clod, Yet somehow to his darkened mind, There came a thought of God. He shaped an idol out of clay, And to it bowed his knee; No one had taught him how to pray, Alas, the poor Chinee!
An artist took his brush and paint, And on his canvas board, He wrought a picture of a saint, And called it Christ the Lord; With patient hand, and wondrous skill, Retouched that kindly face, But thought it ever lacking still, In majesty and grace.
A preacher in his pulpit stood, (His words the people trust,) His message was that God is good, And knows mankind is dust. He drew a picture of a Lord, Omniscient, pure and kind, His thoughts, His purposes, His word, Too high for human mind.
The Kaiser has conceived a god, To rule o'er sea and land, With strong, remorseless, iron rod, In Hohenzollern hand; A god who honors lies and fraud, And mean hypocrisy, A boastful, bloody, brutal god, The god of Germany.
And thus we all our idols make, As our conception is, And pray our Father, but to take, Our helpless hands in His; To give us each a ray of hope, To each a message bring, Each king and kaiser, priest and pope, Each humble poor Wo Sing.
TO JEAN BAPTISTE
O Jean Baptiste! do not resist The military act, Jean; You like to fight, the cause is right, (You know this is a fact, Jean.) When tasks are hard, 'tis not, old pard. Your way to ever shirk, Jean; The saw-log jam, mills, woods and dam All tell how well you work, Jean.
It isn't fear that keeps you here, You're active, brave and strong, Jean; But in this scrap, by some mishap, We got you going wrong, Jean. In dear old France, the Huns advance With bullet, bomb and gas, Jean, It's hardly square that you're not there; (Hank Bourassa's an ass, Jean.)
That we may win, you must begin To help more in this fight, Jean, The die is cast, forget our past Intolerance and spite, Jean, The things you love may worthless prove, If you don't get your gun, Jean; Your woods, and mines, your homes and shrines, May all go to the Hun, Jean.
Our kinsmen brave, across the wave, The Kaiser have defied, Jean, British and French, in bloody trench, Are fighting side by side, Jean. Where duty leads, what matter creeds, Or what baptismal font, Jean? So let us sing--"Long live the king" And join the bonne entente, Jean.
THE LOST TRIBES
We read about the tribes dispersed, That Israelitish host, Condemned and exiled, sin-accursed, Among the Gentiles lost, We wonder what strange paths they walk, In what far land they dwell, Where now does Reuben feed his flock, And Joseph buy and sell?