Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/songspoemsofgreaOOtull i< % Copyright, February, 1915 By Donald Tulloch Worcester, Mass. THE DAVIS PRESS WORCESTER, MASS. SONGS AND POEMS OF THE Great World War ■PEAGE«>thH0N0R Collected and Edited By DONALD TULLOCH A TRUMPET VOICE FROM THE PAST Emerson on England. 1 see her not dispirited, not weak, but well re- membering that she has seen dark days before. - . I see her in her old age, not decrepit, but young, and still daring to believe in her power of endurance and expansion Seeing this, 1 say, All hail! Mother of nations, Mother of heroes, with strength still equal to the time; still wise to entertain and swift to execute the policy which the mind and heart of mankind require at the present hour. Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1856 . Queen Mary of Great Britain DEDICATION. To the British Bom Women of Worcester, This Book is Respectfully Dedicated. Linked by home ties in sympathy, patriotism, and death, with their noble sisters in the warring countries of the Homelands, womanlike, they have left nothing undone to aid in alleviating distress among their kins- folk, caused by the awful carnage in Europe. Self-sacrifice, love, work, have been the wellsprings from which have flowed, across the Atlantic, thousands of dollars in money, food and clothing to assist the desti- tute among the belligerents during the last six months. Off the battlefield, on the battlefield, aye, in the battle and in the trench, woman’s work in this war will be writ large. She consecrated her life for the sake of the men who have battled for Freedom and Justice to mankind. All honor to Worcester’s Womanhood. May the day never dawn when a repetition of this most unwarranted war will darken the pages of history. The entire receipts from the sale of this edition of “Songs and Poems of the Great World War” after actual cost of manufacturer’s production, are to be given to the treasury of the British Born Women’s Association. Feb. 20, 1915. Donald Tulloch. OUR GIFT TODAY. With every book that’s bought today, A thought goes speeding on its way To cheer the hearts of those whose swords For us are drawn. These heroes all Who rallied to the trumpet call, Who bear the brunt on land and sea To shield the kingdom of the free. Enough, if bounty can express Sense of our deep indebtedness, Our earnest promise to befriend Those who on absent ones depend Yet not enough. Shall not the gifts that we bestow Have now and in the afterglow The message we are fain to send To those we love? Each gift a prayer That God may keep them in his care. This thought upon the balance sway — The price we give, The price we pay. — “Glasgow News.” BRITISH BORN WOMEN AND THE WAR. David Abmitage Written specially for this Book by the Poet- Laureate of Worcester. What have British-born women done to help belov’d ones home? The sacrifices they have made are known to God alone! Freely of what they had in store they sent across the sea To render aid to lov’d ones there and serve posterity! British-born women love their race and recognize the Cross That must be borne to exalt men to count their lives as dross The British standard to maintain! — small nations to be free! To hold their place through “Golden Rule,” not through autocracy! British-born women in anguish! Oh, who can tell the story! What pen describe the tragic fate of kin whose end was glory! Their homeland in the throes of war — whatever may betide Their pulses beat in deadly fear for those whom seas divide. Full well they know that God is just — that He will point the way To end the strife that saps the life and makes nations decay! The Lord of Hosts will raise Belgium, make Germans bend the knee The War-Lord’s crown may tumble down if such be the decree! Great Britain’s sons are gathering to make a mighty host That will sweep German invaders back from the Bel- gian Coast! The day will come, for come it must, when Prussia’s bloody lust Must be destroyed forevermore and trampled in the dust! Worcester, Mass., Jan. 18, 1915. WE GIVE THANKS. Acknowledgment is herewith made to The Davis Press, the Wesby Bindery and Howard-Wesson Co., for their gener- ous contribution in the production of this volume at manufacturers’ cost for the benefit of the cause. Thanks are also due to a number of friends who have contributed excellent selections. He lives who dies To win a lasting name. Drummond. LIEGE “Betwixt the foe and France was she, France the immortal, France the free, The foe like one vast living sea Drew nigh. “He dreamed that none his tide would stay, But, when he bade her to make way She, through her cannon answered ‘nay, Not I.’ No tremor and no fear she showed; She held the pass, she barred the road. While death’s unsleeping feet bestrode The ground. “So long as deeds of noblest worth Are sung mid joy and tears and mirth, Her glory shall to the ends of earth Resound. “Watched by a world that yearned to aid, Lonely she stood but undismayed; Resplendent was the part she played And pure. “Praised by her heroes, proud her sons She threw her souls into the guns. Her name shall with the loveliest ones Endure. ” William Watson In “London Chronicle.” Aug. 18, 1914. “I AM A BELGIAN.” In that Valhalla where the heroes go A careful sentinel paced to and fro Before the gate, burnt black with battle smoke, Whose echoes to the tread of armed men woke, And up the fiery stairs whose steps are spears Came the pale heroes of the bloodstained years. There were lean Caesars from the glory fields With heart that only to a sword-thrust yields; And there were generals decked in pride of rank, Red scabbard swinging from the weary flank; And slender youths, who were the sons of kings, And barons with their sixteen quarterings. And while the nobles went with haughty air The courteous sentinel questioned: “Who goes there?” And as each came, full lustily he cried His string of titles, ere he passed inside. And presently there was a little man, A silent mover in the regal van. His hand still grasped his rifle, and his eyes Seemed blinded with the light from Paradise. His was a humble guise, a modest air- — The sentinel held him sharply: “Who goes there?” There were no gauds tacked to that simple name, But every naked blade leapt out like flame, And every blue-blood warrior bowed his head — “I am a Belgian,” this was all he said. Men’s cheering echoed thro’ the battle’s Hell; “Pass in, mon brave,” said that wise sentinel. M. Forrest in “London Spectator.” Queen Elizabeth of Belgium INTRODUCTORY. Of all the volumes written about the Great World War, its origin, who is to blame, its tremendous scope, its colossal cost in men and money, its effect on the map of Europe, when it will end and which side will win, this is the first book published in this country, so far as we can learn, containing songs and poetic effu- sions of the cruel struggle. It comprises a collection of war songs and poems, written by men and women, old and young, resident in both hemispheres, by neu- trals and people who could not be neutral if they would. This volume, therefore, is entirely unique. Its verses are inspired by all the temperamental charac- teristics in men and women — war and peace, love and hate, patriotism and poltroonery, humor and sarcasm, pathos and poignancy. And there are verses on con- templation, condemnation, devastation, death, and some on the Kaiser and his minions. The reader will find such a variety of poetic inspi- rations that it would be strange, indeed, if he or she agreed with everything contained between its covers. The war is looked at from every conceivable angle — by those who were on the bloody battlefields and by those who are divided by four thousand miles of water from the fields of carnage. The compiler has been exceedingly fortunate in receiving from his friends in Great Britain the maga- zines and newspapers of the “Tight Little Island” from which these poems were culled during the first half-year of the war, and presents for your approval this varied collection, which is probably the most ex- tensive of its character in the United States. The principal reason for the publication of this Book, however, at this time is our wish to assist the British Bom Women’s Association of Worcester in its efforts to help the Belgian refugees in Great Britain and the widows and orphans of the British soldiers and sail- ors of the war. We have offered the proceeds of this edition of the work, after the cost of production, to this organization, and trust our efforts will be an incentive to others to make the sale of the Book as extensive as possible, having in view the cause for which these wo- men are working. 8 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The first accounts of the truly gallant stand made by the plucky Belgians, as they witnessed the devas- tation of their peaceful country and the murder of their innocent population, brought out the desire for imme- diate help to feed and clothe the women and children driven so ruthlessly from hearth and country. Wor- cester’s women, overawed by the enormity of the crime perpetrated on innocent Belgium, the utter disregard for an honorable compact as exemplified in “a scrap of paper,” and the gigantic scope of the conflict, as nation after nation became embroiled in the war maelstrom, did not take long to organize for work. The great big woman heart of the Heart of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts throbbed strong and quick for the un- fortunate refugees who had found a warm welcome and open arms from Old Mother Britannia, and money and clothing and food have poured forth unstintingly from Worcester to alleviate the distress during the past few months. This work, apparently, must be carried on as long as the call for assistance comes from across the water. When the war broke out, Great Britain saw that it’s smaller sister, Belgium, was to be ruthlessly sacri- ficed for defending its home. England sprang to arms; the slogan across the border was “Scotland’s burning;” Ireland was ready — aye ready in emergencies for a scrap for justice and honor, and the principality of Wales stood at attention to follow where the Union Jack might lead its soldiers on. The sacred fire of patriotism burned in every British heart. The response to arms came — as it always did in British history, from the lonely hamlet, the city home, the gilded castle. In those homes today the hearts of the people whom the soldiers and sailors loved are sad and lonely. It has been stated that 178 peers of the realm are serving in the British Army — a glorious record indeed, and one which Great Britain may justly feel proud of. And there are 2,000 000 men — every one of them a peer — to be found in the ranks — the most glorious achievement in the annals of British warfare. The British Empire, on which the sun never sets, honors its soldiers and sailors. One English mother has nine sons at the front fighting for King and Country. One crofter woman in Skye sent seven sons to war, all of them braw lads who joined the kilted Scotch regi- SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 9 ments. Truly this Inverness-shire widow did her “bit.” Never before in the history of the Empire have 80,000 men comprising a portion of Great Britain’s land fighting force responded to the call to arms wear- ing the kilt and bonnet and plaid. There are many sections of Great Britain where not an able bodied man has been left in the small villages, every one of them responding to the calk either for the army or the navy. The contingent which went from Newfoundland, a fine body of men, have been quartered away up in the northern section of Scotland in Fort George, and there they are being trained for the more severe test which will come to them when they get into the trenches. When these men were welcomed to their new martial surroundings, it was stated by one of the leading citi- zens that what the enemy has done in Belgium will steep the German name in infamy as long as there is any regard for right and justice in Europe. The re- sponse to arms of England, of Wales and Ireland, of Canada, India, Australia and other colonies has won the admiration of the world. It has been reported by the officers of an English trawler which brought to port 70 of the men saved from the disaster of the Formidable that one of the boats capsized as it was being launched into the raging sea, and the British Jackies went to their doom singing “It’s a long way to Tipperary.” There is a rival in France to “Tipperary.” “Alouette, Gentille Alouette, je t’y Pluerai, ” gaining its popularity through the efforts of the 5th Royal Highlanders of Canada, which brought the song across the Atlantic when the first expedition- ary force arrived in England, prior to going into train- ing at Salisbury Plains. Among those who will stand in British history as authors of poems, side by side with Newbolt, Masefield, Kipling, Noyes Bridges, is William Watson, who was born in Yorkshire, over half a century ago, and who wrote one of the earliest of the war songs, more as a counter blast to German activities in this country for sympathy of the Americans. It was a song addressed to the United States soon after this country had de- clared its neutrality. By many people, disappointment was felt at the phraseology used by Watson in the last few lines of his sonnet, finding fault with this great 10 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR nation for its rightful attitude of neutrality. Here is the sonnet: Art thou her child, bom in the proud midday Of her large soul’s abundance and excess: Her daughter and her mightiest heritress, Dowered with her thoughts, and lit on her great way By her great lamps that shine and fail not? Yes! And at this thunderous hour of struggle and stress, Hither across the ocean wilderness, What word comes frozen on the frozen spray? Neutrality! The tiger from his den, Springs at thy mother’s throat, and canst thou now Watch with a stranger’s gaze? So be it then! Thy loss is more than hers; for, bruised and torn. She shall yet live without thine aid, and thou Without the crown divine thou might’st have worn. We endeavored to select the songs with care and judgment. We frankly confess that our goal of am- bition with this work was not so much that it should be a literary effort as a financial success. We desire to make money for this cause. But we hope to obtain both ideals. We await the public decision with interest. We invite you, reader, to assist us by urging your friends to purchase this book if you find in it something that appeals to your literary palate. We recognized in each poem or song, a thought, a suggestion, a humorous sally, or touch of sarcasm that perhaps was not con- tained in some other. The places from which the selections were taken are wide apart, from Land’s End to John O’Groat’s, while others were written in far-off India, in Australia, Africa, and quite a number in Massachusetts. The most popular war song of the day, with the Allies is “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” and the same may be said of those who are not belligerents. Both in the trenches of the Allies and at the various army depots, as the men gather for training before going to the front this song is popular among all others, because of its rhythm and humorous sentiments. It is all the rage and promises to remain so as long as the war lasts, at least. But there are other good marching songs, and these are sung extensively by the British regiments. Nat- urally, there has also been a great harvest of doggerel, much of which met its Waterloo in the concert halls and mediocre theaters of Great Britain. Scores of those which we have seen have had “Taps” sounded SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 11 at the close of their first rendition, and there were no mourners, outside of the writers, left to bury them. And justly so. When all is said in favor of the quality of the good old patriotic songs, it must be admitted that “Tipper- ary” is the prime war classic of the world war today. Another song which has appealed strongly to thousands of soldiers and those of patriotic heart, is entitled “The flag that never comes down.” It has made a hit in concert halls in the United Kingdom. “The flag that never comes down,” is the Daily Sketch war song and the profits from its sale go to the Prince of Wales Fund. Few of the old English or Scot- tish songs are really suited for marching, though many of them are full of patriotism and very inspiring. One of the things deplored in this war is the fact that Great Britain does not possess a really good na- tional battle song. Britain has no “Marseillaise,” and so Tommy Atkins, who ought to know what he wants to sing on the march, has chosen “Tipperary” and “Get out and get under.” Thousands of Kitchener’s soldiers have marched through the streets of Great Britain without any music accompaniment. It is not practical now to have bands at the battle front, and a new battle era has come along since the time when Piper Findlater piped his gallant kilted soldiers up the Heights of Dargai and chased the foe away. Incidently, it is interesting to all Britishers, Scotchmen particularly, to know that Piper Findlater enlisted the other day and brought his inspiring bag- pipes along with him. He will probably have some chance to cheer the “Kilties” on the battlefield against the Huns before the war is over. Either in music or dancing, the Scotchmen like to have some fun, even amidst the horrors of the present war. There have been many strange things happening between the British soldiers and the Germans while they were facing each other only a few yards away in their respective trenches. At Christmas time, when there was a general cessation of hostilities, the spirit of the day seemed to come over both sides and the rifle was laid aside to give a chance for an exchange of “Christmas goodies.” During a lull in the fighting, Lieut, the Hon. William Fraser of the Gordon High- landers at Ypres, got out from the trenches and danced 12 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR the Highland Fling, without music and much to the delight of the other Scotties near him. It is such di- version as this which has helped to lighten the awful burden of constant fighting and “watchful waiting” in the trenches. The songs and poems of the war, must, of necessity, in a great world wide conflagration like the present, touch on almost every phase of the subject imaginable. They are catchy and rhythmic, epigrammatic and lyric, of long metre and short metre, and no metre at all. They denounce the aggressiveness of the Prussian mili- tarists for throwing Europe into the war, the call to arms is sounded by the men who are to save the world from the military spirit and prevent the Kaiser from being the King of Europe and Dictator of the World. They speak of the patriotism which has impelled the young men to enlist at the call of king and country, of the magnificent response of the allied countries, of their glorious fighting on the battlefield and the enumeration of doughty deeds by doughty men on land and sea, of the great sacrifices made by women, and of the hope that the war will soon come to a conclusion, with the Allies victorious and Prussian militarism forever ban- ished from the world. As in the days of old, music, vocal and instrumental, play an exceedingly important part in the progress and the success of the war. Today, as of yore, music is heard while on the march and in the trenches. It was stated not long ago that the French minister of war, M. Millerand, commissioned the Breton bard, Theodore Botrel, to visit the camps of the Allies and stir the pa- triotism of the troops with his songs and recitations. Botrel has inherited to a marvellous degree the poetical genius of his Celtic ancestors, and his jolly songs have immensely encouraged and inspired his hearers. This same thing was done in our own Civil War, more par- ticularly among the men of the Army of the Potomac, when the command was in winter quarters. Many of the songs and poems in this book are print- ed in the United States for the first time and a goodly number of them from manuscript. This is specially true of verses by Worcester’s poetical celebrities, which are fully up to the standard of the genius of many note- worthy writers of verse in Great Britain. SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR 13 Other selections, and these comprise the biggest bulk of the Book, have been culled from the leading British magazines and dailies and acknowledgment gladly made of the authors and the publication in which the songs were printed. In this connection we have also to acknowledge with thanks the contributions of a few friends who not only sent their own writings on this subject, but interested others to send us songs which at first reading struck a responsive chord in their hearts. The splendid efforts of the writer’s friends in Great Britain to furnish us the choicest of the selections print- ed in “The Tight Little Island” are herewith acknowl- edged and thanks awarded to all authors and publishers who have given permission to reproduce their verses. Another purpose of this volume is well served if it furnishes an opportunity to the average American citizen, of perusing the poetic effusions, the rollicking humor, and the ebullitions of temper and hate so well displayed in the lines penned by those nearer to the deathly struggle now going on. We trust it will help to focus the minds of those in the Heart of the Common- wealth, in New England, wherever the book may find a favored place on a library table, on the war situation, more closely and from various angles than could pos- sibly be done outside of a visit to the battle scenes. As soon as the war broke out and the people of Great Britain had recovered from the initial shock of its com- prehensiveness, brutality, and world-wide seriousness, the verse-writers of Great Britain — in fact, of every- where, were stirred to the depths of their innermost beings. The result is that rousing war songs and poetic effusions, good, bad and indifferent, and the latter were in larger bulk, found ready space in magazine and news- paper. There are included in this volume the opinions in verse of several hundred individuals. The efforts of almost as many more, a great number of them of merit, have been reluctantly declined publicity in this volume simply for the want of space. These writers have been inspired to indite their views on the many phases of the war, just as the mood happened to strike them. Many of them speak of the war in all its hideousness, some are very emphatic in regard to who is to blame, others speak of the experiences of the battlefield, of the march- ing of armed millions to their death, the life of the sol- 14 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR diers on the entrenched battlefield and of the eternal vigilance of the sailors roaming on the ocean and be- neath it, while the latest phase of modern warfare has not been forgotten and a eulogium has been passed on the daring bird-man and the zeppelin conductor. Some have treated sympathetically of the innocent and bro- ken-hearted Belgians. Woman, young and old, rich and poor, has done her “bit” to aid her stalwart sons and husbands and broth- ers to bring glory to their nation in this war. On both sides of the battle fronts, the women of the sol- diers at home and behind the battle lines are doing their part. Some of them have even been found to have enlisted and it was weeks and months before their sex was discovered, so well did they quit themselves like men. Others not so courageous as to go to the battle lines, are in the Red Cross armies near the front, while still others — the larger portion of womanhood, have contented themselves with the magnificent work which has been accomplished in helping to make the terrible warfare easier, and to bring the injured back to life the quicker. It has been said that hundreds of Russian school girls have run away from home in boys’ clothing and tried to enlist as volunteers. Among the wounded in the battle of Nieman was a broad-shouldered girl from one of the country districts, whose disguise was not discovered until she reached the field hospital. Many curious methods have been adopted by wo- men to show their partiality to one side or the other, and one of the attractive young women of Scotland — Miss Bunty Morrison of Macduff, has been doing her “bit” by shooting rabbits and game on her fathers’ estate, and sending what fell to her gun to the Belgian Relief Fund. It is not the intention of the compiler of this volume to write on the merits of the war. That is not needed and officially this United States is strictly neutral. Long may it remain so. But, individually, it must be admitted that the overwhelming sympathy of the peo- ple of this great nation seems to be with the Allies. There are various reasons for this, and probably the most important is that of the brilliant, glorious stand made by the Belgian soldiers who desired to protect their land, their homes and people, their industries, art, commerce, from the destroyer, just because she desired SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 15 to uphold the sanctity of “A scrap of paper.” The suggestion that the heart of America is with the Allies, is proved mainly by generous gifts of money, clothing, food, valued at millions of dollars which have been sent across the Atlantic to alleviate the suffering. The world — that portion of it not embroiled in the war, has gone out in practical sympathy and in myriads of ways to the bereaved and injured caused by the war. The United States has sent, and is still sending, from its capacious storehouses of food, money and clothing, vast quantities so that never in the history of the world has there been such magnanimous liberal- ity long-sustained shown by any nation towards another as that in the case of the United States towards the Allied Powers, as well as to the sufferers in Germany, Austria and Hungary. It has been estimated that in the first four months of the war the United States raised $20,000,000 for relief, representing both factions at war, and $9,000,000 of this have gone to Belgium, $3,500,000 to Germany, and much more, indeed, since that first estimate. It would not be germain to our purpose in this Book to make anything but a brief mention of the great mili- tary geniuses who are shaping the destinies of the Allied Armies of the powerful nations banded together to se- cure the downfall of militarism. Gen. Joffre, the silent, Lord Kitchener, the autocrat, Jellico the patient, the Grand Duke, the strategist and disciple of “the watch- ful waiting” propaganda. They are master minds of the military and naval art who are to remake the map of Europe, bring militarism into subjugation and be subject to the rule of world-wide democracy. The dreadful destruction of humanity in this most terrible of wars, includes, on both sides of the conflict, great soldiers, noble sailors, skilled financiers, captains of industry, statesmen, merchants, talented representa- tives of the professions, men and the greatest of these are MEN. The rank and file is after all the most potent factor in the winning of battles, led on, as they have been, by brilliant officers. Millions of homes in Europe and the United King- dom, aye, and some in the United States and Canada, are in mourning today. Each of the noble men who faced death to fight for what they felt was Right, have met their “Pilot, face 16 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR to face. ” Of each, again, may it not be said, that the words of Tennyson, in his most beautiful verses, are exceedingly appropriate. Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning at the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. Worcester, Mass., U. S. A. Donald Tulloch SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 17 THE ROLL OF THE WAR DRUMS. From the Ms. by Marvin M. Taylor What are the drum beats that we hear From the castled Rhine and Teuton woods? The roll that calls to arms, to arms! To man the ships! To load the guns, Which have been wrought with giant plot — In years of seeming peace — for war, To crush the sunny land of France; And even, by a farther chance, To crumble England’s mighty power, And force the Russian beer to cower — The roll which calls for power, power! and “Deutschland uber Alles!” But the echoes are shouts of a war made race That spurns the scythe for the iron mace, And has rushed to camp, and the distaff cast Aside, to seize the sword haft; And there mingle the wails of a land laid waste When the avenging foes burst through the gates, And the wild despair of a nation’s moan When it reaps the whirlwind it has sown! What are the drum beats that we hear From the Land of Chimes by the northern sea? The roll that spurs a blameless folk At least to dare and die against A foe that scoffs at solemn pledge, A foe that knows no right but might, That sneers at unoffending men Who, beaten, fight and fight again, And crashes through their smiling lands With trampling hosts and vandal bands, and Monster guns like juggernauts! But the echoes are sighs through silent mills, And wasted homes by running rills, Cathedrals prone in cloistered yards, And villages reduced to shards — A nation en route — save the men who fight — Like shepherdless sheep from wolves aflight, And mothers, with naught for their babes to share, The highways glutting with despair; 18 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR A nation with nothing left to keep But their eyes too terror-dazed to weep. What are the drum beats that we hear From Vosges crags to North Sea sands? The roll that links the battling lines Of bayonets and belching guns From fort to fort, from trench to trench — A nation’s cable sternly forged Against a foe with power gorged, Each link of freemen, fiercely set Their land to save, and not to let The war mad hordes their homes beset and Make another Belgium! But the echoes are vineclad slopes destroyed, And streams with blood and wreckage cloyed, Long trains of mangled soldiers sped To waiting graves or painful bed; And crowded camps, no joy within, But orphaned children, wan and thin, Their fathers dead, their mothers worse, War’s ripest fruit and perfect curse! What are the drum beats that we hear Borne o’er the waves from Britain’s shores? The roll that, staunch to promise made, And cherishing a weaker friend, Throws off the hausers, anchors heave, And cut the waves in eager flight To join the world’s defensive fight; Meanwhile far calling to her sons Across the seas to come, to come, and Save the world’s rich heritage! And the echoes are women’s cheers through tears When from the wharves the transport clears; And answering shouts the whole world round, Of eager sons all motherward bound, From Canadian woods, and Indian plain, And the mighty isle of the Southern Main, “We come, we come! Our hearts are there Before our lives your perils share!” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 19 What are the drum beats that we hear From the battling hordes on the Eastern Line, Muscovite, Pole, Cossack and Tzech? The roll of another mighty tide From Russian steppes and Balkan steeps; But not to conquer again do they come, Nor to hammer again at the gates of Rome, But to deluge back the invading host That ruthlessly thunders at their coast To conquer them, and prove their boast and Greed of universal power! But the echoes are tramp of millions more, From home of Serb and Muzhik’s door, Of live men trampling over dead, To death-dealing death and slaughter led, While hospital bed and prison pen Are gorged with mangled and moody men, Who brood on the homes where the mothers weep, And their children wondering vigil keep! What are the drum beats that we hear From Pilgrim Rock to Golden Gate? The roll of a people free and safe, Strong to be feared but feared by none, Untouched by war or dread of it; Yet into the war America sprang, Into the carnage her cohorts flung, Her swift keels cut the tossing seas — But the flags they fling to the speeding breeze are Banners of mercy and pennons of peace! And the echoes are cheers when the food ships clear, And again when the Flemish ports they near, Laden with gifts it were pain to keep From a people who pity to a people who weep. Though not convoyed by battle ships, The grim war crafts their ensigns dip To the ships of mercy on their way, A . blessing-bearing Armada! What are the drum beats that we hear When the hell of it ends and the war is done? The judgment roll of the human race, Aghast at the devastation wrought; 20 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The roll that shall ring a curse on war, On the fruitless folly and crime of it, And king or people who father it — That never again shall a hero make Who ruins the world for dominion’s sake, or For any land “uber alles!” And the echoes shall be a chastened world, A world with all its war flags furled, A world that shall bow at the shrine of peace Till the Judgment Day when time shall cease; A world that has learned the Christian Way, And shall keep one vast Memorial Day— With its heel on the throat of the war god set — Lest it forget! Lest it forget! Worcester, Mass. WAR SONG Scots wha hae wi’ Roberts bled, Britons, Kitchener has led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victory! Now’s the Day, and now’s the Hour! See the front of battle lour! See the Kaiser’s vaulting power — Chains and slavery! Wha wad be a traitor knave, Wha sae base as be a slave, Wha wad fill a coward’s grave, Let him turn and flee! Ho! for England’s King and laws, Nation’s rights and Freedom’s cause, Ho! for Righteousness and Truth Within this realm of ours. Briton, Scotsmen, Ireland’s braves Unfurl the banner; cross the waves; And in one mighty host combine. To drive the foe across the Rhine. Edward Hull in the “Outlook.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 21 WAR I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fife, and I forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul. Without a soul — save this bright drink Of heavy music, sweet as hell; And even my peace-abiding feet Go on marching with the marching feet. For yonder, yonder, goes the fife, And what care I for human life! The tears fill my astonished eyes And my full heart is like to break; And yet ’tis all embannered lies — A dream those drummers make. Oh, it is wickedness to clothe Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks Hidden in music, like a queen That in a garden of glory walks, Till good men love the thing they loathe. Art, thou hast many infamies, But not an infamy like this. Oh, snap the fife and still the drum, And show the monster as she is? Richard le Gallienne. A HYMN OF WAR 0 God, how incoherent, swift, And hot with blood and salt with tears The supplications that we lift This wildest of all warring j^ears. And strange the Christian altar seems — So ghastly, so ungarlanded! It rises pallid as our dreams Of the unknown, unburied dead. No table built of wood or stones On which the muted lamb was tied; Upon this ark of human bones The Lamb of God is crucified. 22 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The bursting bomb, the battle shock, The ravished hearts that slowly bleed, The countless broken bodies mock Thy body, broken for our need. Thou art the Captain of the host, On Thee we call to kill and maim; On Father, Son and Holy Ghost To light and lead the fearful flame. We visit on the innocent Thy wrath, in which no man can live. Lord, must Thy pity be forspent? O Prince of Peace, forgive, forgive! Ada Foster Murray. THE GODS OF WAR London critics pronounce this poem by George Russell, the noted Irish poet, to be the finest on the war yet produced in Great Britain. It is reprinted from the “London Times.” Fate wafts us from the pygmies’ shore! We swim beneath the epic skies; A Rome and Carthage war once more, And wider empires are the prize; Where the beaked galleys clashed, lo, these Our iron dragons of the seas! High o’er the mountains’ dizzy steep The winged chariots take their flight. The steely creatures of the deep Cleave the dark waters’ ancient night. Below, above, in wave, in air New worlds for conquest everywhere. More terrible than spear or sword Those stars that burst with fiery breath; More loud the battle cries are poured Along a hundred leagues of death So do they fight. How have ye warred, Defeated armies of the Lord? This is the Dark Immortal’s hour; His victory, whoever fail; His profits have not lost their power; Caesar and Attila prevail. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 23 These are your legions still, proud ghosts, These myriads embattled hosts. How wanes thine empire, Prince of Peace. With the fleet circling of the suns The ancient gods their power increase. Lo, how thine own anointed ones Do pour upon their warring bands The devil’s blessings from their hands. Who dreamed a dream mid outcasts bom Could overthrow the pride of kings? They pour on Christ the ancient scorn. His Dove its gold and silver wings Has spread. Perhaps it nests in flame In outcasts who adjure His name. Choose ye your rightful gods, nor pay Lip reverence that the heart denies, O nations. Is not Zeus today, The thunderer from the epic skies, More than the Prince of Peace? Is Thor Not nobler for a world at war? They fit the dreams of power we hold, Those gods whose names are with us still. Men in their image made of old The high companions of their will. Who seek an airy empire’s pride, Would they pray to the Crucified? 0 Outcast Christ, it was too soon For flags of battle to be furled While life was yet at the high noon. Come in the twilight of the world; Its kings may greet Thee without scorn And crown Thee then without a thorn. WAR. Mrs. E. A. Wheeler “The same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of His indignation.” — Holy Writ. Has hell itself “unloosed the dogs of war,” And sent them rampant o’er this mundane sphere, “Appolyon straddled quite across the way,” Planting his cloven foot on land and sea? 24 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Has our old Satan — chained a thousand years — Escaped, his lengthened sentence now expired? Arms he his imps of darkness and despair, And yokes his howling demons to his car. To hasten forth to crush out lives of men, And gloat with fiendish glee o’er widows’ tears, And laugh at moaning little children’s pain, Mocking at broken-hearted mother’s fears? Back! back to your infernal den, O fiend! Call off your bloody, devilish dragon corps! Begone! accursed of God! hide your foul head, And be an ally ’gainst your God no more! Rockland, Mass. Jan. 10, 1915, in “Boston Globe.” THE EUROPEAN WAR By David Armitage. Written Sept. 14, a few weeks after hostilities began. How strange it seems this twentieth century war! Britain allied with France and Russian Czar ’Gainst German hosts and those of Austria too — War Lords gone mad ’twould seem from a review. This war in Europe is most pregnant theme For thought and speech — excelling wildest dream; Millions of men — the image of their God, In deadly strife for mastery of the sod! Who is to blame for the most wicked crime That ever stained the annals of our time? Who gave the word that sped the armies on O’er Belgium soil — its neutral zone undone? The Kaiser did! He yet may rue the day His ultimatum first came into play. His game of war — have England neutral be— Then “On to Paris,” as in eighteen seventy! Most fateful step the Kaiser took just then To march through Belgium with his million men. “A scrap of paper” was the Belgium Treaty: To ignore it he felt to be his duty. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 25 A cruel fate is that of Belgium! She made brave fight, but suffered martyrdom Her efforts vain! Towns laid waste, her people slain! Though her struggles thwarted Germans in the main. France sprang to arms and French and British troops Have kept from Paris German armies with their swoops. The end is not — Germans must weaker go While Allies both in strength and numbers grow! Freedom for all, be nations large or small, Is now at stake. Titanic hosts appall With shot and shell, by mine and submarine Death stalks abroad. Flay God’s power intervene! We love not war and war must be restrained. Nations, like men, must by the courts be chained. Tennyson’s dream that “battle flags be furled” May yet come true to “federate the world.” Bridled must be the war lords of to-day; The world be freed from military sway! The Prince of Peace will not forsake His own; Right must succeed, tyrants be overthrown! This favored land should long remain at peace With war abroad trade here should have increase! Work for all good- — co-operate to that end, Thus bless all people and become their friend. WAR I. C., in “London Morning Post.” From hill to hill he harried me, He stalked me day and night; He neither knew nor hated me; Nor his nor mine the fight. He killed the man who stood by me, For such they made his law; Then, foot by foot, I fought to him, Who neither knew nor saw. 26 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR I trained my rifle on his heart; He leapt into the air, My screaming ball tore through his breast And lay embedded there. It lay embedded there, and yet, Hissed home o’er hill and sea Straight through the aching heart of her Who ne’er did harm to me. — Arthur Stringer EDWARD GREY’S ANSWER “ . . .it would be a disgrace for us to make this bargain with Germany at the expense of France, a disgrace from which the good name of this country would never recover." — Sir Edward Grey to Sir E. Goschen. When Honor on her silver bugle blows a point of war, Then Englishmen arise, With battle in their eyes, They can only give one answer, as their fathers answered, for The choice that they are making Is fighting or forsaking, And a false, fair-weather friendship is a lie that they abhor. O’er the narrow seas the Gallic cock was crowing shrill alarms. He saw them coming forth, The War Lords of the North, He said — “My little soldiers, it is time to fall to arms; But our coasts are lying bare, Will England do her share? A friendship that is fickle is the worst of Fortune’s harms. “Through Luxemburg and Belgium they are marching in their might, They trample on the weak, Our overthrow to seek; They tear up every treaty, and they laugh at every right; Will England see her name Put thus to open shame? Will she see her Royal pledges torn in pieces in' her sight?” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 27 But the Germans in their arrogance our Minister ad- dressed, Half-wheedling, half-commanding — “Let us make an understanding, Her coasts we will not batter nor her ports will we in- vest; If you will stand apart While we pierce her to the heart, We will let you show your friendship by a bargain for the rest. ” Then Sir Edward Grey replied, to the honor of his race — “To what England puts her hand, Upon that she takes her stand. She will not barter treaties in your German market- place, Nor will she condescend To pledge away a friend, Such contracting out of danger were for ever her dis- grace.” So o’er the perilous seas to Death or Victory we go, Our sailors rushing forth, To give battle in the North; There as it was aforetime our ships will meet the foe; And our brave soldiers too — Trafalgar, Waterloo! As then so now, twice armed are we since Honor backs the blow! THE MOTIVES. “Against England we fight for booty; against our Continental enemies for victory.” — Dr. Solf, German Colonial Secretary. We went to war with Russia— ’Twas nothing but our fun, And she’ll be lightly treated when The victory is won. We only want to show her What wonders we can do, When once our Army gets to work, By way of “hacking through.” We had to harry Belgium, Although it pierced our heart, 28 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Because we wished to win from France Advantage at the start; But let no one imagine There’s reason for alarm, For, spite of all our “ frightfulness, ” We wish such foes no harm. But when it comes to England, It’s quite another thing; From her a cry for mercy yet Our mighty fist will swing; Nor will that be sufficient To sate our martial zeal — Our noble hearts are set upon The booty we shall steal. A. W. B. in the London “Daily Chronicle.” THE DAY (The author of this poem is Henry Chappell, a railway porter at Bath, England. Mr. Chappell is known to his comrades as the ‘Bath Railway Poet. ” A poem such as this lifts him to the rank of a national poet.] Reprint- ed from the “London Daily Express.’* You boasted the Day, and you toasted the Day, And now the Day has come, Blasphemer, braggart and coward all, Little you reck of the numbing ball, The blasting shell, or the “white arm’s” fall, As they speed poor humans home. You spied for the Day, you lied for the Day, And woke the Day’s red spleen. Monster, who asked God’s aid Divine, Then strewed His seas with the ghastly mine; Not all the waters of all the Rhine Can wash thy foul hands clean. You dreamed for the Day, you schemed for the Day; Watch how the Day will go. Slayer of age and youth and prime (Defenceless slain for never a crime) Thou art steeped in blood as a hog in slime, False friend and cowardly foe. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 29 You have sown for the Day, you have grown for the Day ; Yours is the Harvest red. Can you hear the groans and the awful cries? Can you see the heap of slain that lies, And sightless turned to the flame-split skies The glassy eyes of the dead? You have wronged for the Day, you have longed for the Day That lit the awful flame. ’Tis nothing to you that hill and plain Yield sheaves of dead men amid the grain; That widows mourn for their loved ones slain, And mothers curse thy name. But after the Day there’s a price to pay For the sleepers under the sod, And Him you have mocked for many a day — Listen, and hear what He has to say: “Vengeance is mine, 1 will repay.” What can you say to God? A CHANT OF HATE AGAINST ENGLAND. By Ernst Lissauer in “Jugend.” An illustration of the intense animosity against England prevailing in Ger- many. Rendered into English verse by Barbara Henderson. French and Russian, they matter not, A blow for a blow and a shot for a shot; We love them not, we hate them not. We hold the Weichsel and Vosges-gate, We have but one and only hate, We love as one, we hate as one, We have one foe and one alone. Fie is known to you all, he is known to you all, He crouches behind the dark gray flood, Full of envy, of rage, of craft, of gall, Cut off by waves that are thicker than blood. Come, let us stand at the Judgment place, An oath to sweat to, face to face, An oath of bronze no wind can shake, An oath for our sons and their sons to take. Come, hear the word, repeat the word, 30 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Throughout the Fatherland make it heard. We will never forego our hate, We have all but a single hate, We love as one, we hate as one, We have one foe and one alone — ENGLAND! In the Captain’s Mess, in the banquet hall, Sat feasting the officers, one and all, Like a sabre-blow, like the swing of a sail, One seized his glass held high to hail; Sharp-snapped like the stroke of a rudder’s play, Spoke three words only: “To the Day!” Whose glass this fate? They had all but a single hate. Who was thus known? They had one foe and one alone— ENGLAND! Take you the folk of the Earth in pay, With bars of gold your ramparts lay, Bedeck the ocean with bow on bow, Ye reckon well, but not well enough now. French and Russian they matter not, A blow for a blow, a shot for a shot, We fight the battle with bronze and steel, And the time that is coming Peace will seal. You will we hate with a lasting hate, We will never forego our hate, Hate by water and hate by land, Hate of the head and hate of the hand, Hate of the hammer and hate of the crown. Hate of seventy millions, choking down. We love as one, we hate as one, We have one foe and one alone — ENGLAND! — New York “Times.” A REPLY. (In reply to the above, and on the day of its publication, the New York “Times” received the following from Beatrice M. Barrt:) French and Russian, they matter not, For England only your wrath is hot; But little Belgium is so small SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 31 You never mentioned her at all — Or did her graveyards, yawning deep, Whisper that silence was discreet? For Belgium is waste! Ay, Belgium is waste! She welters in the blood of her sons, And the ruins that fill the little place Speak of the vengeance of the Huns. “Come, let us stand at the Judgment place,” German and Belgian, face to face, What can you say? What can you do? What will history say of you? For even the Hun can only say That little Belgium lay in his way. Is there no reckoning you must pay? What of the Justice of that “Day?” Belgium one voice — Belgium one cry Shrieking her wrongs, inflicted by GERMANY! In her ruined homesteads, her trampled fields, You have taken your toll, you have set your seal; Her women are homeless, her men are dead, Her children pitifully cry for bread; Perchance they will drink with you — “To the Day!” Let each man construe it as he may. What shall it be? They, too, have but one enemy: Whose work is this? Belgium has but one word to hiss — GERMANY! Take you the pick of your fighting men Trained in all warlike arts, and then Make of them all a human wedge To break and shatter your sacred pledge; You may fling your treaty lightly by, But that “scrap of paper” will never die! It will go down to posterity, It will survive in eternity, Truly you hate with a lasting hate; Think you you will escape that hate? “Hate by water and hate by land; Hate of the head and hate of the hand.” Black and bitter and bad as sin, 32 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Take you care lest it hem you in, Lest the hate you boast of be yours alone, And curses, like chickens, find roost at home IN GERMANY! TO THE GERMAN ARMY A New Year’s Prayer 1915, by Earl Curzon of Kedleston. “The song of hate,” was received in Germany with much favor, as it seemed to express the feelings of German people towards Great Britain and recently the Kaiser decorated the author. Now Earl Curzon of Kedleston, formerly Viceroy of India, in order to visual- ize British opinion of Germany, or at least, his own opinion, has written a poem to the German Army, entitled “A New Prayer, 1915,” in which hatred of Germany is spoken in forceful English. Here it is: — I pray that every passing hour Your hearts may bruise and beat, I pray that every step you take May scorch and sear your feet! I pray that beauty never more May charm your eyes, your ears, That you may march, through day and night, Beneath a heaven of tears. Blind to the humblest flowers that in The hedgerow corners bloom, Deaf to whatever sound or cry May wake in you the memory Of dear ones left at home. I pray your guns may be engulfed Beneath the loam — our loam! I pray the streams — our streams — may leap In floods above their banks and sweep Your trampling hosts to doom! I pray the spectres of our slain May haunt you in your tents — Vigil or sleep, whiche’er you seek — Naught smelling but the bloody reek Of our Holy Innocents. I pray the ruins of our homes May crush you like a worm, Your brains beneath the torment reel, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 33 Doubt from your hearts their fury steal, Fear drive you like brute beasts that squeal And fly before the storm! I pray that you may live to writhe ’Neath every pang we’ve known; Then haply may Almighty God Spare the supreme avenging rod, The eternal anger of His nod, And say the miles that you have trod Shall of themselves atone! THE TURNING OF THE WORM We gave them our hearts and we gave them our purses: They sent us their scum who brought nothing but curses. We gave them our jobs when our secrets they’d learned: They were fixing up bombs with the money they earned. We took them for valets and waiters, the dears! They were squinting through keyholes and sweating their ears. We accepted their love in exchange for our trade: And their Dreadnoughts increased with the profits they made. We worshipped their music and warbled their songs: They were oiling the thumbscrews and heating the tongs. We feted and dined them and showed them our boats: They jumped at the chance on their cuffs to make notes. Our money, our trust, and our trade — all, we gave them, But now, from our steel and our bullets, Hell save them! Aubrey Ford, in London “Opinion.” 34 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR HOW LIEGE HELD THE ROAD From Herbert Kaufman’s volume of poems entitled “ The Song of the Guna.” We were pounding at the anvils when they pounded at our gate ; “Open,” cried the German squadrons; “let us pass, or meet your fate! We are millions; dare deny us and Liege is but a name.” But we chose to die in honor than to buy our lives in shame. So we banked our eager fires, and we laid aside the sledge, Recking only that our sires had endowed us with the pledge To maintain an ally’s honor, to uphold the Belgian code, And we answered with our cannon, THAT LIEGE WOULD HOLD THE ROAD! We, who faced the Roman legions when the Prussian was unborn, Met the insult of the raider with a message of steel scorn. Dared he think, this upstart Caesar, that the Belgii would be cowed, Where the Roman Caesar found us standing fearlessly and proud? And we did not wait for England, and we did not wait for France, But alone we gave him battle, and alone blocked his advance ; And the flag that fluttered boldly over town and fortress showed To the world that God fought with us, and LIEGE STILL HELD THE ROAD! Fifty times the hungry Uhlan ate our lead and asked for more ; Fifty times the Belgian dragoons charged and cut them to the core; And they perished by the thousand, but an ever- swelling flood Day by day poured through the border, sworn to drench Liege in blood. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 35 And our wives looked at their children, but our women did not quail! “Serve the fatherland. ’Twere better that we perish than you fail. Rather than to breed to cowards, we will bear the widow’s load; For the glory of our children, fight — LIEGE MUST HOLD THE ROAD!” When the last sword is a ploughshare, and the last war-trampled plain Has been furrowed, and its scars are hid beneath a rug of grain ; When the nations’ hates are sated, and the ancient feuds have died; When the Mongol lust is vanished, and the last gun laid aside; When the last despot’s ambition is a memory of the grave; When we know not Czar, nor Emperor, nor King, or serf, nor slave; Men will tell the deathless story of the Belgians’ splendid code, When for God, and King, and glory, AT LEIGE WE HELD THE ROAD. BELGIUM HELD THE WAY TO THE BATTLEFIELD. By Rev. Henry E. Lovelady, Vicar of Oldham, Eng. “Few were they, and the foe was strong, Cruel and stern as fate; He bade them bow to the rule of wrong, And sell him the guarded gate. Never a man of them chose to yield To the challenge of ruthless might; They held the way to the battlefield Till their friends had gathered to fight. 36 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR They gave their lands for the Huns to tread, Their homes for the Huns to burn; For our very lives they gave their dead, And what shall we give in turn? For the blood they shed we give our own, Our wealth for the debt we owe, Till we smite the tyrant off his throne, And lay the oppressor low. They have spent themselves to save our shore, They are strong to suffer yet; And so do God to us, and more, If we pay not all our debt!” WHEN STRUCK “THE DAY.” From the Ms. by W. B. Scofield. Life says at birth, “Lo! this is mine to give Receive this breath and guard the gift I make.” And Death soon comes and cries to all who live, “ ’Twas Life’s to give, but it is mine to take.” How many myriad shapes old Life has wrought To trick the treasure from his rival’s hands; But patient Death still finds what he has sought And drives his quarry o’er Time’s fatal sands. How many cycles has the contest raged, How many creatures back to earth have gone; For whom and what is the wide battle waged O’er all who have been or shall yet be born? For countless years, in spite of all his care, Life has been vanquished in the endless task; Each clod, breath-quickened, caught in Death’s dark snare A clod has proved, behind each falling mask. Yet one race, for a little while, seemed made To challenge Death and hold him fast at bay When man, God-gifted, stept forth unafraid To face his fate in the broad light of day. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 37 There was no labor that the human mind Would not have conquered, as with Christ’s own might, And ancient superstitions left behind Man then had said, at last, “There shall be light!” There is no mystery of the midmost earth, No maze of highest sky, or deepest sea, No winding riddle of our death or birth But man had found the talismanic key. When struck “the day” that better had not been, With all mankind ’neath Death’s dark banner ranged, And all the promise that the world had seen, In that brief hour, to hopelessness was changed. And what the profit of the godless day, Though cannon hurl its shell a hundred miles? The fate of man hangs trembling on their play When Life has tears and Death has only smiles. Smash down the forts and sink the shuddering ships, Fill reeking trenches with your squandered slain, Set Death’s sad seal upon the breathless lips Then, turn to Life and start the race again. Worcester, Mass., Jan. 1st, 1915. TO ARMS To arms! to arms! ye Britons; Hark to the battle cry; It calls in voice of thunder, Its echoes pierce the sky. Now is the time, ye patriots, To show your valor true; List to the call of Duty, It speaks — it speaks to you. To arms! to arms! ye Britons; Your country needs your aid In this her hour of peril, ’Gainst hostile hosts array’d. The battle rages fiercely, 38 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR And hotter grows the fight; Defend the cause of Honor, Strike on the side of Right. To arms! to arms! ye Britons; Whatever it may cost, Come in your hundred thousands And join the gallant host. List to the martial summons And with one voice reply “We come! we come! 0, Britain, “To conquer or to die.” R. J. W. ENGLISHWOMAN’S OWN WAR SONG It was a woman, Julia Ward Howe, who wrote “ The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The writer of the new ‘‘Song of Liberty,” a new tune sung by the British soldiers at the front, is also a woman, says T. P.’s Weekly. She is Helen F. Bantock, the wife of the composer, Professor Granville Bantock. Now is the time, my brothers, To lift a battle song, To shame the cowards in the fight, The loiterers in the throng. Now serried close our ranks must march, High held our hearts and free, To fight the fight or die the death For dearest liberty. We want no laggards in the rear, No waverers along, For the race is to the swift And the battle to the strong. We pray not for a guerdon — Of hardier stuff are we: We fight the fight, we sing the song, Of holy liberty: We mould the thoughts, we mould the thews Of nations yet unborn. And marching through the watches long, We sing unto the morn: What if the great for rule, contend Or kingdoms come and go! We plough the furrows of the deep The living seed we sow! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 39 The world is waxing weary Of all its weight of wrong, Too long has freedom in its marts Been bought and sold — too long: Down with the Mammon idols, Down with greedy lust of land, Let wars unrighteous cease, Let freedom reign from strand to strand: Fear not though temples fall, For life unfolds in endless awe, And if the soul of man be love, The soul of love is law. Then now is the time, my brothers, To lift a battle song, To shame the cowards in the fight, The loiterers in the throng: Now hand in hand our ranks must march, High held our hearts and free, To fight the fight, to find the light, Of glorious liberty. We want no laggards in the rear, No waverers along, Up, brothers, up, and sing, And fight the battle of the strong. A CALL TO ARMS By Mary Symon, in “London Graphic” Your country needs you. Leave the plough To rust in homeland sod. Give weakling hands your work to do, Leave child and wife to God. “To arms! To arms!” The tocsin peals O’er moor and mount and glen — The cry that thrilled our sires of old Wakes Britain once again. Your country needs you. Hell is loose Across yon strip of sea; Its trampling hordes are at our gates — Once in, and what are we? The helots of the Hun accurst, 40 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR O man of woman born Give answer by your heaped dead, ’Mong Belgium’s alien corn. Your country needs you. Will you go? To fight, perchance to die? Is Britain done? Her age-old might A dream that’s passed by? Is freedom but a mirage limned In some poor dotard brain? The answer’s yours! The pageant waits! Out yonder sweeps the Aisne. TO THE KAISER1N. So be thou hast a heart Within thy breast, not, like thy lord, a stone — A human heart to feel and grieve and break, There, on thy throne, Looking upon the blood and bitter shame Of tender women fashioned as thou art, Hast thou no moan to make? No shuddering cry of pity for their sake? Or dost thou, too, heap mockery on the Name Of the Great Martyr? If thou hast a heart Thou canst not gaze on Belgium’s death and dearth, Rapine and ruin, that it doth not bleed. Wherefore, methinks, thou art to-day indeed Most wretched of all women on the earth. Teresa Hooley. TO ARMS Hark ye the cannon, its gruff voice is sounding The charge to the legions of night to advance; Hark to the tramping of hosts that are hounding Peace from her citadels: Now is your chance. Leave ye the plough, leave the pen in the inkstand, Speed from the field wherein Sport has its sway. The despots of darkness are threatening our home- land, Fill up the ranks of the Right while ye may. Close down the concert, the doors throw asunder: Now where the stage is a continent large SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 41 The music of bugle preludes the thunder Of horses and men as they sweep to the charge. Join ye the ranks of the army defending God’s land for God’s message of peace on the earth. Done with the cant of this foreign pretending, Fight for the Truth — and for all ye are worth! The path of the Prussian is strewn with his pillage, All of God’s laws has the tyrant abused. He has shot down the aged, and burned out the village And women’s sweet bodies lie violate and bruised. Women, be brave, kiss your men and God-speed them, Bid them to go and to give of their best. The parting is hard but for your sake we need them. They strike for your home — and the babe at your breast. Harold Wimbtjry. FOLLOW THE DRUM Written by F. V. St. Clair. The German dogs of war are loose, And all the world is arm’d, But Mother England’s ready, And we must not be alarm’d, For proud is she to know that we When challenges are hurl’d, Will follow in our fathers’ steps When Britain’s flag’s unfurled — In all parts of the world. Chorus: When war has got to come, we’ll follow the drum, As we did in the days gone by, When the sound of war is in the air, Ev’ry son of the Empire must be there. 42 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR If foes want to lower the flag let them try, To the Empire we will cling For ev’ry mother’s son, Will be ready to carry a gun, With the soldiers of our king. Old Mother England calmly reads Each letter that arrives, And those from overseas read “We will gladly give our lives.” Tho’ oceans great divide us from Your little strip of land, ’Tis still our Mother Country, and Together we will band To save the Motherland. A message came from Erin’s Isle, And this is how it read — In times like these all Party strife All enmity is dead. When England is in danger — Threatened by the common foe, Irishmen of any creed will Shoulder guns and go- — With you in weal or woe. Today we all stand back to back Prepared to do or die, England expects that every man To do his best will try. “One for all and all for one,” Sinking all our fads, No longer are we Socialists, Conservatives or Rads, But all true British lads. BRITANNIA’S CHILDREN Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them: nought shall makejis rue, If Britain to itself do rest but true. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 43 BUNDLE AND GO (An old bagpipe war tune.) Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go- — Your back to the Highlands, your face to the foe; A kiss and a tear, and the pipes blowing clear — Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go. Hark! to the pipes rousing the glen Down by the ford and round by the ben; Our country is calling, so gather the men — Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go. War — is it war? Then war let it be — None of our seeking, but ready are we; We’ll over the hills and over the sea — Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go. Germans are surging through France like the tide, Belgians are fighting for freedom wi’ pride; We’ll into the fray wi’ the French by our side — Bundle and go, O, bundle and go. See all the lads in battle array. The glint o’ the tartan is heartsome to-day. Who would be here when the lads are away? Bundle and go, O, bundle and go. Good-bye to the glen, the hearts o’ us greet; Good-bye to the clachan, so homely, so sweet, Its silence and peace, and the scent o’ the peat — Bundle and go, O, bundle and go. Bonnie the hills wi’ the heather a-bloom; Bonnie the girl whose heart has the gloom, Wi’ lips like the rowan and hair like the broom — Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go. Bundle and go, 0, bundle and go — Your back to the Highlands, your face to the foe; A kiss and a tear, and the pipes blowing clear — Bundle and go, O, bundle and go. D. A. M. 44 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR DADA’S DON TO DA FYUNT “Dada’s don acyoss da sea Among styange people,” Mama says; I don’t know why ’e din’t take me; ’E always does on udder days. Dey tell me ’e is “at da fyunt, ” (Da fyunt of wot I tan’t make out) ; “And ’e will ’ave to stand da byunt;” I don’t know wot it’s all about. When Dada went ’e looked so fine, Among a lot of soldier men; ’E told Mama ’e’d “drop a line,” My Mama laughed and kyed, and den Da mouf-organs bedan to pyay, And baby laughed an’ kyapped ’is ’ands, And den dey sang “ ’Tis yong, yong way,” An’ shouted, “Now for Derman bands.” My Dada’s don away to fight, An’ yet ’e doesn’t yike a yow; I tought dat fightin’ wasn’t yight, So why is Dada fightin’ now? Now when my Dada said “Dood-bye” ’E told Mama ’e’d not be long If she would pyomise not to kye, But Dada’s been a yong time gone. An’ now we pyay each night dat ’e Might soon turn back wiv medals on; For such a darlin’ Dad is ’e, Dat we tan’t spare ’im very long. London Chronicle. RALLY TO THE STANDARD Rally to the Standard, Rally to our King; Our battle is for truth and right, And all that they can bring. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 45 Then rally, boys, rally. Our sires won fame upon the seas, And glory on the field; And never shall Old Britain’s sons Lay down their arms and yield. Then rally, etc. Our swords shall aye defend the weak, Maintain a righteous law, And make her foes to feel the weight Of Britain’s lion paw. Then rally, etc. The Seaforths, Gordons, old Black Watch, The Greys, the boys in Blue, Are heroes still on land and sea, And loudly call for you, To rally to the Standard, Rally to our King; Our battle is for truth and right, And all that they can bring. Then rally, boys, rally. Robert Mackay. FALL IN! What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack When the girls line up the street, Shouting their love to the lads come back From the foe they rushed to beat? Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky And grin till your cheeks are red? But what will you lack when your mate goes by With a girl who cuts you dead? Where will you look, sonny, where will you look When your children yet to be Clamor to learn of the part you took In the War that kept men free? Will you say it was naught to you if France Stood up to her foe or bunked? But where will you look when they give the glance That tells you they know you funked? 46 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare In the far-off winter night, When you sit by the fire in an old man’s chair And your neighbors talk of the fight? Will you slink away, as it were from a blow, Your old head shamed and bent? Or say — “I was not the first to go, But I went, thank God, I went”? Why do they call, sonny, why do they call For men who are brave and strong? Is it naught to you if your country fall, And Right is smashed by Wrong? Is it football still and the picture show, The pub and the betting odds, When your brothers stand to the tyrant’s blow And Britain’s call is God’s? Cassell’s “Saturday Journal.” THE YOKE OF ENGLAND. From the Ms. by Ralph A. Stewart. The English colonists have long been waiting this opportunity to shake off the yoke of the mother country. — German News Item. Across the seas the answer comes, As it has come before, From Hull to Pentland Firth it peals And drowns the cannon’s roar. Let those who will, attempt to stay The wrath of fire and flood, But never hope to still the call That stirs the English blood! They come from Melbourne and the Cape, Brisbane and Montreal, To march with those of kindred faith From Auckland and Bengal, Australians, Ghurkas, Islanders, Battalions, Army Corps, With every tide their transports make For England’s troubled shores. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 47 Pretoria, Sydney, Halifax, Grown steadfast with the years, Send forth their sons to fight and die Beside the Fusiliers. The songs that fall on alien ears In Alsace and Lorraine Tell of the snows of Ottawa, The hills of Bloemfontein. They never saw the Sussex Downs, Nor felt the Channel spray, But England, in her hour of need, Has called and they obey. “Shake off the yoke!” Fools that you were, The yoke that holds them fast Is hallowed by an empire’s blood, The glory of its past. Brookline, September 22, 1914. THE HODDEN GREY. Way, way for the Hodden Grey, For the fiery cross burns red, Thro’ London town borne up and down, The ancient spell has sped. O’er hill and dale each warlike Gael Is called to meet the foe, And spirit feet on the London street, March with us as we go. Way, way for the Hodden Grey, For the lads from o’er the Forth, From Tweed and Tay and the Silvery Spey, The shieling in the North. Some ne’er have seen the heather green On hill or Highland ben, But the spirit’s there to do or dare, That led our Highland men. Way, way for the Hodden Grey, For we fear no foreign foe. Our grandsires bold as in days of old March with us as we go. 48 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR For Scotland’s might, for Britain’s right, We march to win the day, And the foe shall shout, mid battle rout, “Way for the Hodden Grey!” Wilfred Lorraine Anckorr in the London “Times.’” BRITISH MARCHING SONG. From the London “Times” Air: “Keel Row.” He tore the scrap of paper, The Belgian scrap of paper, He tore the scrap of paper, And bade the bullets fly. chorus: So now we’re off to Berlin, To Berlin, to Berlin, So now we’re off to Berlin, To ask the reason why. He shot the wives and children, The wives and little children, He shot the wives and children, And laughed to see them die. He sacked the shrines of Louvain, Of Genlis, Rheims and Louvain, He sacked the shrines of Louvain, They flamed against the sky. He swore his heart was bleeding, His tender heart was bleeding, He swore his heart was bleeding, And winked his wicked eye. He tried the road to Paris, The blood stained road to Paris, He tried the road to Paris, It only was a try. He talked of German culture, Of blood and iron and culture, He talked of German culture, And every word a lie. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 49 THE “BLACK SQUAD” IN KHAKI Put off the oily dongaree, Don’t ask the reason why; Britain’s manhood all should be Wearing the King’s khaki. Let loco’s all go off the “beat,” Showering her spark so high; Though all the brasses run and heat, We’ll don the King’s khaki. Though shafts do break and boilers burst, Or tanks leak till they’re dry, We know to take the first things first And be lads in khaki. No more of turning at our lathe. No more of “stock and die,” Till we have gone youth’s only path, And swelled the ranks khaki. No more the rivets we’ll knock down, Making the metal fly, Till we have served our King and crown And worn with pride khaki. So, every worthy engineer, Let hammers dormant lie; Show to the world you have no fear, And don the King’s khaki. Off goes the oily dongaree, To work we’ve said “good-bye,” We soon will let the Kaiser see The “Black Squad” in khaki. “Kilmarnock Standard,” Dec. 12, 1914, RECRUITS Nearer draws the foe, Near to home and heart, When our dearest go Forth to take their part. 50 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Youth, adventure keen, Lightly bids adieu; Worlds are to be seen Home birds never knew. Good from ill may spring; And the arduous year, War’s rough faceting, Set their manhood clear. Weariness will keep Sieging care away From their soldier-sleep: But, by night, by day Upward still will come Fancies, fears, alarms: Till the welcome home Folds them to our arms. W. W. in “Glasgow Herald" OLD AGE APPEALS TO YOUTH. Oh! for the days of my youth, When Spring spread her flowery way, When mile after mile, O’er field and stile, I wandered the livelong day. Oh! for the days of my youth, When Summer hours were long, When over the hills, By murmuring rills, I marched with a heart of song. Oh! for the days of my youth, When my step was firm and light, I tramped the heather In Autumn weather, And dreamless slept at night. Oh! for the days of my youth, When my grip was like a vise, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 51 When winged with skate And with heart elate I flew o’er the gleaming ice. Oh! for the days of my youth E’re thus by the fire I sit, And varicose veins And muscles strain Have rendered me unfit. Oh! for the days of my youth, For King I’d gladly sign, And proudly take, For Britain’s sake, A place in the fighting line. Oh ! young men of to-day, Will you follow pleasure’s train While German shell Makes an awful hell Of Allies’ fertile plain! Oh! young men of to-day, Will you play the coward’s part And leave to others Your wives and mothers To guard with bleeding heart? Oh! young men of to-day, Are you held by the greed of gold, For the blood of child And of maiden mild Have you thus your honor sold? Oh! young men of to-day, Will you see your comrades die . Yes, dying for you, And your children too, While you stand idly by? Oh! young men of to-day, Will you help in the sacred fight, And when you’re old, And the tale is told, Stand well in your children’s sight? 52 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Oh! young men of to-day, Come, join in the gallant band, And fight for the right And the cause of light And our dear old native land. “Kilmarnock Standard,” Dec. 12, 1914. YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU. Don’t you hear the bugle’s call ! You must know your country needs you, You must conquer once for all! Rouse to arms and do your duty, Let not others fill your place. Sound the battle cry of freedom, Rouse! you have a foe to face! Fight that foe till he discovers He has made a big mistake, If he thought to conquer Britain When her honor was at stake! We are glad and proud to know That many of our men have gone, Gone to fight their country’s battles, Fight till justice has been done! You who still hold back uncertain Whether to desist or fight, Conquer self, make one brave effort, Do your part, with all your might! Think of Belgium, desolate, wasted, Solemn treaties roughly torn, Spoken of as scraps of paper, By a nation in its scorn! Britons, we can keep a treaty, Though perhaps ’twill cost us dear, Made to aid a weaker nation, Strive to keep it without fear! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 53 We can fight with hearts undaunted, For we know our cause is right, Fight till tyranny is ended, And the right has conquered might! When this awful strife is over, When the victory is won, We will welcome those returning, From their duty bravely done. Inverness. Flora Mac Hattie, THE AULD “RESERVE.” It was hervest-time, An’ the craps were prime Up at John Tamson’s toun! Short-goun an’ sark Were hard at the wark, Nickin’ the barley doun. Pipe-time cam’, An’ there was Tam — Tam wi’ the scowl an’ the scars! Tam had spent Years in the Tent’ Dandy, dashing Hussars. Tam the “Reserve” — Think o’ his nerve! Auld an’ rheumatic an’ worn, Strauchen’d his back An’ burst on the crack Wi’ — “I’m aff to the wars the morn!” Led by his “half,” The wirnmen let aff An angersome skirl o’ scorn; It wauken’d him up Like the crack o’ a whup Or a tout on a trumpet horn. “Wha said I wis auld? I’m hale an’ I’m bauld!” But they lauch’d his announcement to scorn. 54 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR “Ye’re far better here Than a crock at the weir; Ye’re better at cuttin’ the corn!” He lap to his feet — “Ye may lauch, but ye’ll see’t! It’s wimmen’s wark backin’ the corn! I’ve the richt to be ca’d; An’ I’ll gang too, be-gawd! An’ I howp for the summons the morn!” John Tamson spak’, An’ endit the crack — “There’s half the field to be shorn; I’ll no’ say ye’re auld, But the truth maun be tauld, It’s lang sin’ the day ye wis born!” Hugh Haliburton. A BALLADE OF OFFICE BOYS. They came with collars of wide expanse And chubby faces and quaint, round eyes, To ink their fingers at every chance And check their elders with rude replies. We saw them grow to alarming size. What kids they seemed, not so long ago! But now they march where the shrapnel flies, The Office-Boys that we used to know! We smiled as schoolboy exuberance Grew gravely businesslike, blandly wise; As calf-love dawned at a typist’s glance (With lively, consequent tastes in ties), And how could we in the least surmise That these were men to arise and go On war’s grim, desperate enterprise, The Office-Boys that we used to know? To see them stemming a foe’s advance, Or wresting from him a cherished prize, Or manning a desperate trench in France, We’d once have stared in amazed surprise. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 55 We used to smile at them, none denies. We thought they were born for naught but show. Ah! never more can we patronize The Office-Boys that we used to know. Envoi. Prince, heed not when the pessimist tries To prove the power of a German foe; Trust them! They’ll send him to Paradise — The Office-Boys that we used to know! R. M. THE GAME. Come, leave the lure of the football field With its fame so lightly won, And take your place in a greater game Where worthier deeds are done. No game is this where thousands watch The play of a chosen few; But rally all! if you’re men at all, There’s room in the team for you. You may find your place in the battle-front, If you’d play the forward game, To carry the trench and man the guns With dash and deadly aim, 0, the field is wide, and the foe is strong, And it’s far from wing to wing, But we’ll carry through, and it’s there that you May shoot for your flag and King. Will you play your part in the middle line Where our airmen bear the brunt, Who break the plan of the foe’s attack, And rally the men in front? A bold assault, and a sure defence In their game they well combine; And there’s honor, too, awaiting you, If you’ll play in the middle line. And, last of all, you may find a place Perchance of less renown, Where a willing army may save the game, 56 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR If the first defence break down. So while others serve in the far-off front, Or out on the deadly foam, Will you not enroll to keep the goal, And fight for your hearth and home? Then leave for a while the football field, And the lure of the flying ball Lest it dull your ear to the voice you hear When your King and your country call. Come, join the ranks of our hero sons In the wider field of fame, Where the God of Right will watch the fight, And referee the game. A. Lockiiead, in “The Times." FOR COUNTRY AND FOR KING. Oh! sons of Britain, rouse ye! Hark to the trumpet call; The land that so endows ye With favor needs ye all. Go, as ye march, uniting In one grand song to sing — “We Britons glad go fighting For country and for King.” Strive, strive that so the story May add a splendid page To Britain’s book of glory, Her people’s heritage; Go, as ye march, uniting In one grand song to sing — “We Britons glad go fighting For country and for King.” Uphold your country’s honor, Maintain your nation’s fame, Heap gorgeous deeds upon her, And vaunt her glorious name, Go, as ye march, uniting In one grand song to sing — “We Britons glad go fighting For country and for King.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 57 For ye, remembrance keeping, In that isle, misty grey, The women, hushed, go weeping, And all the people pray. Go, as ye march, uniting In one grand song to sing — “We Britons glad go fighting For country and for King.” Amid the cannon’s rattle, The deep, strong joy of strife, The mad, fierce rage of battle, Know things more dear than life; To nobler deeds inciting Still Britain’s sons will sing — “On, on, for honor fighting, For country and for King.” Algiers. Mary M. Chukchod. TO THE SHIRKER: A LAST APPEAL. Now is your free choice, while the chance is yours To share their glory who have gladly died Shielding the honor of our island shores And that fair heritage of starry pride, — Now, ere another evening’s shadow falls, Come, for the trumpet calls. What if tomorrow through the land there runs This message for an everlasting stain? — “England expected each of all her sons To do his duty — but she looked in vain; Now she demands, by order sharp and swift, What should have been a gift.” For so it must be, if her manhood fail To stand by England in her deadly need; If still her wounds are but an idle tale The word must issue which shall make you heed; And they who left her passionate pleas unheard Will have to hear that word. And, losing your free choice, you also lose Your right to rank, on Memory’s shining scrolls, 58 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR With those, your comrades, who made haste to choose The willing service asked of loyal souls; From all who gave such tribute of the heart Your name will stand apart. I think you cannot know what meed of shame Shall be their certain portion who pursue Pleasure “as usual” while their country’s claim Is answered only by the gallant few. Come, then, betimes, and on her altar lay Your sacrifice to-day! O. S. in “Punch.” THE CLAN OF GAEL. Francis Carlin, in New York “Times.” Hail to the Gael who ever hears The whisper of Destiny’s warning; Singing a song of the future years To the music of Yesterday’s morning! What of the night and what of the day And what of the dubious morrow? Roaming the world he has won his way From the heart of his country’s sorrow. Hail to the Gael whose only fear Is the loss of his soul hereafter; Teaching the world how to conquer here To the music of love and laughter! What of the fray and what of the song And what of the Doubter’s warning? England is right — but England was wrong In the troubles of Yesterday morning. Hail to the Gael whose Freedom still Is only a “scrap of paper”; Marching off from the harrowed hill Or out from the shop of the draper! What of the signs and what of the foes And what of the coward’s warning? SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 59 Leaving Victory home, he goes To battle for Her in the morning. Hail to the Gael of Ireland From the ancient bone in the trenches, To the mingled blood of the hilted hand — The Kitcheners and the Frenches. What of the North and what of its boast And what of its Orange warning? Ah ! but what of the Prussian toast To “the Day” that shall have no morning! TO THE BRAVE. From the Ms. by Frank Roe Batchelder. God save you, gallant British men, Where’er your flag be flown! Across the sea your fleet keeps free We hail you as our own. The fight of all the world you fight In turret and in trench: Belgium by you shall live anew And France shall still be French. Behind your back the savage slays Your children and your wives, But you will show, face to the foe, How brave men give their lives For freedom, honor and the right, Their country and their king: Nor has our earth yet given birth To any nobler thing. Shall British freemen be enslaved, And English speech forgot? Speak, English guns! Strike, British sons! And prove that they shall not. Woe to far lands that shelter snug Behind you, safe from harm, If, while you fight, some greater might Strike down your outstretched arm. 60 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR It shall not be! Though torch and lust Consume their helpless prey, Eternal Truth shall balk their ruth Who lust to rule and slay. God save you, gallant British men Gone forth from hut and hall In honor bright to fight the fight That yet shall save us all! Worcester, Mass., Jan. 31, 1915. TO BRITANNIA. By A. Conan Doyle. God save England, blessed by Fate, So old, yet ever young; The acorn isle from which the great Imperial oak has sprung! And God guard Scotland’s kindly soil, The land of stream and glen, The granite mother that has bred A breed of granite men! God save Wales, from Snowdon’s vales To Severn’s silver strand! For all the grace of that old race Still haunts the Celtic land. And, dear old Ireland, God save you, And heal the wounds of old, For every grief you ever knew May joy come fifty-fold! Set Thy guard over us, May Thy shield cover us, Enfold and uphold us, On land and on sea! From the palm to the pine, From the snow to the line, Brothers together And children of Thee. 61 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Thy blessing, Lord, on Canada, Young giant of the West, Still upward lay her broadening way, And may her feet be blessed! And Africa whose hero breeds Are blending into one, Grant that she tread the path which leads To holy unison. May God protect Australia Set in her Southern Sea! Though far thou art, it cannot part Thy brother folks from thee. And you, the Land of Maori, The island-sisters fair, Ocean hemmed and lake begemmed, God hold you in his care! Set Thy guard over us, May Thy shield cover us, Enfold and uphold us, On land and on sea! From the palm to the pine, From the snow to the line, Brothers together And children of Thee. God guard our Indian brothers, The Children of the Sun, Guide us and walk beside us, Until Thy will be done. To all be equal measure, Whate’er his blood or birth, Till we shall build as Thou hast willed O’er all Thy fruitful Earth. May we maintain the story Of honest, fearless right! Not ours, not ours the Glory What are we in Thy sight? 62 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Thy servants, and no other, Thy servants may we be, To help our weaker brother, As we crave for help from Thee! Set Thy guard over us, May Thy shield cover us, Enfold and uphold us, On land and on sea! From the palm to the pine, From the snow to the line, Brothers together And children of Thee. CANADA’S WORD. By Rev. Charles W. Gordon (Ralph Connor). Taken from Princess Mary’s Birthday Book, all profits of which go to the Queen’s work for Women Fund. O Canada! A voice calls through the mist and spume Across the wide, wet salty leagues of foam For aid. Whose voice thus penetrates thy peace? Whose? Thy Mother’s, Canada, Thy Mother’s voice. O Canada! A drum beats through the night and day, Unresting, eager, strident, summoning To arms. Whose drum thus throbs persistent? Whose? Old England’s, Canada, Old England’s drum. 0 Canada! A sword gleams leaping swift to strike At foes that press and leap to kill brave men On guard. Whose sword thus gleams fierce death? Whose? ’Tis Britain’s, Canada, Great Britain’s sword. O Canada! A prayer beats hard at Heaven’s gate, Tearing the heart wide open to God’s eye, For righteousness. Whose prayer thus pierces Heaven? Whose? ’Tis God’s prayer, Canada, Thy Kingdom come. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 63 0 Canada! What answer make to calling voice and beating drum, To sword-gleam and to pleading prayer of God For right? What answer makes my soul? “Mother, to thee! God, to Thy help! Quick! My sword!” INDIA TO ENGLAND. O England! in thine hour of need, When Faith’s reward and Valor’s meed Is death or Glory; When fate indites with biting brand, Clasped in each warrior’s stiff’ning hand, A Nation’s story. Though weak our hands, which fain would clasp The warrior’s sword with warrior’s grasp, On Victory’s field; Yet, turn, O mighty Mother! turn Unto the million hearts that burn To be thy shield! Thine equal justice, mercy, grace, Have made a distant alien race A part of thee! ’Twas thine to bid their souls rejoice, When first they heard the living voice Of Liberty! Unmindful of their ancient name, And lost to Honor, Glory, Fame, And sunk in strife Thou foundst them, whom thy touch hath made Men, and to whom thy breath conveyed A nobler life! They, whom thy love hath guarded long, They, whom thy care hath rendered strong In love and faith. Their heart-strings round thy heart entwine; They are, they ever will be thine, In life — in death! — Nizamut Jung (High Court Judge in Hyderabad). 64 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR “ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND” What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the song on your bugles blown, England- Round the world on your bugles blown! Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you’ve done, England, my own? When shall we rejoice again, Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the song on your bugles blown, England- — Down the years on your bugles blown? Ever the faith endures, England, my England — “Take and break us; we are yours, England, my own! Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky; Death is death, but we shall die To the song on your bugles blown, England — To the stars on your bugles blown!” They call you proud and hard, England, my England; You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mailed hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the song on your bugles blown, England — Round the pit on your bugles blown! Earl Kitchener SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 63 Mother of ships whose might England, my England, Is the fierce old sea’s delight, England, my own; Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-chief of the ancient Sword, There’s the menace of the Word In the song of your bugles blown, England — Out of heaven on your bugles blown! — William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903 AN APPROPRIATE VERSE. Just before the war besjan. a dear old admiral presented me with a little book for daily use. I could not help noticing how very appropriate were the lines for to-day (Saturday), and perhaps by publication in your valuable paper they may inspire many a new recruit for Lord Kitchener’s Armies. I append the verses to my letter. S. E. H. TO=DAY. Rise! for the day is passing, And you lie dreaming on; The others have buckled their armor, And forth to the fight have gone; A place in the ranks awaits you, Each man has some part to play; The Past and the Future are nothing In the face of the stern To-day. Rise from your dreams of the future, Of gaining some hard-fought field, Of storming some airy fortress, Or bidding some giant yield; Your future has deeds of glory, Of honor (God grant it may!), But your arm will never be stronger Or the need so great as To-day. 66 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR TEN HUNDRED THOUSAND STRONG! “We are Coming, Mother England, ten hundred thousand strong.” This is the response to Kitchener’s Call for more soldiers. They are marching shoulder to shoulder to report for duty from Great Britain and Ireland and from all quarters of the Globe. Just as in the trying days of Abraham Lincoln, when the boys in blue so nobly responded to the call to arms for liberty and unity, so today the boys in khaki are answering the clarion notes of Britannia’s Call and they are coming a million strong and more. Men of our land who love our land, arise! Your country needs you. Never yet in vain That clarion call has quivered to the skies, And spread as living fire o’er hill and plain. Your country needs you; leave it not too late. The human spiders brood on every hand, Swarm overwhelming, pitiless as Fate. Do as thy fathers did— up, grasp the brand. Men of our land who love our land, unite To wrest from hands inept, perverted power. The fearful streams they’ve loosed to Heaven’s sight Are but as drops to oceans red that lower. Trust not to others in this hour of need; Fight for thine own salvation, stand or fall. O wait not idly by while brothers bleed; Your country needs you, answer thou her call. Men of our land who love our land, mark well, The foe is strong in hoarded strength of years. Will ye then let their cannon sound our knell? Shall Britain’s glory sink in blood and tears? Shall it be ever written of our might, “The sons she trusted failed her, so she fell?” O, God forbid that ever morning’s light Shall see our doom and Liberty’s farewell. Men of our land, you love our land — aye, all! Right well we know it is not craven fears That dull your ear unto the tocsin’s call; ’Tis but the apathy of bloodless years. The spark once struck will grow into a flame That, growing yet, shall blast with fiery breath The sanguined foe, it calls a blush to name, Who glut, with wanton hand, the halls of Death. Men of our land, you love our land. Ah, see! Rank upon rank is forming, closely set SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 67 To fight for all we love, to keep us free. But still the call comes, “More are needed yet.” More thou shalt have, 0 Mother, in thy need, From us and from thy children far away, Till all lie low, or stand triumphant freed From despot’s rule and blown ambition’s sway. Men of our land, all love our land. I hear The deep-toned thunder of a nation’s rage. From every clime that holds thine honor dear Thy sons resistless come to keep their gage. All tongues as one, the chorus swells afar And beats against the vault of earth’s vast dome In cadence stern that drowns the din of war: “Mother, you called us — see, we come, we come!” Henry Chappell, in London “Daily Express.” THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE. By James Sloan Gibbons. We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- sand more, From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New Eng- land’s shore; We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before; We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- sand more! If you look across tire hilltops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry ; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour; We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- sand more! 68 SONGS OB' THE GREAT WORLD WAR If you look all up our valleys where the growing har- vests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mothers’ knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their coun- try’s needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door; We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside, Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before; We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- sand more! OUR DRILL SERGEANT. A few months back he wasn’t much to speak of; By profession just a plain commissionaire. If you addressed him he would touch the peak of His braided cap and answer you with care. You see, when he retired from active service, With medals gained while fighting with the Boer, His grateful country said, “What you deserve is A shiny stool outside some office door, My old Non-Com!” But when our suburb set itself to muster Its own battalion of the Spare Time Corps, The authorities were in a pretty fluster For want of men to drill the Johnny Raw. “Now, then!” said they (of course, they used politer Language, with a more persuasive ring), SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 69 “This here’s your chance, you obsolete old blighter! Get off that stool and come and serve your King, My old Non-Com!” So now we all obey him with precision, And fall in quickly when we hear him shout. We show respect, and hope he’s short of vision When we wobble as we try to right-about. Oh, you may have been his managing director When he sat upon that shiny office stool ; But you’ve got to hold your blanky head erect, or You’re nothing but a (censorated) fool To this old Non-Com! Dudley Clark. CATERHAM CAMP. (By M. H. in the London “Daily Chronicle.”) 0, a picture fair is Caterham town In the calm of the autumn day, boys, As she sits in her frame of harvest-brown ’Neath skies of softening gray, boys; But it’s tramp, tramp, tramp, in Caterham Camp Till daylight disappears. For it is there they are drilling — the Guards, boys, The Scots and the Irish Guards, boys, The gallant Coldstream Guards, boys, And the fearless Grenadiers. They have come from Scotland’s farthest strand, From the fertile fields of Ayr, boys, From Antrim’s headlands wild and grand And the plains of brave Kildare, boys, And every shire of England’s soil. He’s blessed her Volunteers, And sent them to drill in the Guards, boys, The Scots and the Irish Guards, boys, The famous Coldstream Guards, boys, And the dauntless Grenadiers. There are peasants’ sons in their rough homespuns, There are lads from ducal halls, boys, But rank or name they’re all the same 70 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR When “To Arms” their country calls, boys, As they learn to fight for God and right, They are comrades and compeers, And they’re proud to belong to the Guards, boys, The Scots and the Irish Guards, boys, The slashing Coldstream Guards, boys, And the dashing Grenadiers. 0, they soon shall go out to meet the foe In Freedom’s sacred name, boys, And nobly they’ll keep stainless still The Guards’ undying fame, boys; So it’s tramp, tramp, tramp, in Caterham Camp Till daylight disappears. For it’s there they are drilling — the Guards, boys, The Scots and the Irish Guards, boys, The gallant Coldstream Guards, boys, And the dauntless Grenadiers. A UNITED EMPIRE From the utmost bounds of Empire Britain’s sons are trooping in, To defend their country’s freedom, To support their kith and kin. Full of ardor, fit and ready, Every man is keen to fight For the honor of the Empire, For the triumph of the Right. War is hateful, but more hateful Is the “blood and iron” creed That prompts men to wholesale slaughter And to pilage, lust, and greed. Every blow now struck for freedom, For the right of men to live Undisturbed in friendly labor, Is the gift each man can give For the weary world’s redemption From the curse of sinful pride In the “arm of flesh” that faileth, And from Kings, who truth deride. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 71 Briton, Boer, and Indian trooper And our kin from oversea, Comrades all, in one great army, Shout the war-cry of the free: — “Forward, lads, to death or glory! Help to break oppression’s chain, Throw your shield o’er weaker nations, Fight for Right and not for gain.” Then, when all the fight is over, And the roar of guns shall cease, May God grant to all the nations Blessing in abiding peace. Edinburgh. J. Denham. THE CHILDREN OF THE BRAVE A brave man went to battle And left no son behind; A coward stayed home safely To propagate his kind. And then the land lamented Its noblest men were gone, Were dead with no descendants To hand the torches on. But in his valiant passing The soldier left a deed To serve as inspiration For time’s unborn to heed. When in his generation He heard the trumpets cry The coward’s son, responding, Went bravely forth to die. McLandburgh Wilson. 72 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR DRAKE’S DRUM. By Henry Newbolt, who was chosen for knighthood recently in England. This is his most popular production. It is based on a Devonshire tradition that in England’s time of utmost need, Sir Francis Drake will return to defend her on the seas. Newbolt was born in Bilston, England, June G, 1862, and now lives in London. Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder looms the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe, An’ the shore lights flashin’, an’ the Night-tide dashing, He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) Rovin’ though his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. “Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low; If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven, An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.” Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum, An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; When the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’, There shall find him ware and wakin’, as they found him long ago! THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM. If ye do not feel the chain When it works a brother’s pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed, Slaves unworthy to be freed? Is true freedom but to break Fetters for your own dear sake, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 73 And with leathern hearts forget That we owe mankind a debt? No, true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free. J. R. Lowell. THE CAUSE OF RIGHT. The cause of Right our arms maintain Against the foe whose God is might, Whose faith’s a myth, whose acts profane The cause of Right. Still rages on the Belgian plain The yet unprecedented fight, O God of Battles, end its reign! Rise o’er the worshippers of Cain, Resplendent in humaner light, And champion in the great campaign, The cause of Right. W. A. B. “GAZE ON YOUR SONS!” By Alexander James Monroe, in the London “Daily Chronicle.” Ye ancient Gauls, rise from your graves, And view the battle from afar, Not with broad blades or trusty staves Is carried on the game of war. Ye British sires, gaze on your sons, Nor need your brows with shame be blenched; Gaze on them as they face the Huns With courage cool, yet fire unquenched. Not showers of arrows but of steel Fall on your sons like tempest’s hail; Yet rest again in peace and feel Your sons may bleed but never quail. 74 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The flags ye bore still float on high: Sure is each shot and true each blade, Though many fall and some may die, Your sons will conquer undismayed. TO MY COUNTRY There may be woes to come that shall outdye First hues of victory, and shocks more dread That search the spirit at its fountain-head, And cramp the heart with terror — but where shall fly More nobly set the flag of liberty, Britain! than over thee to freedom bred; Or over these thy ranked, heroic dead, Or over these thy sons who dare to die? They come from all thy borders with one will From eager towns, and hamlets sunk in sleep, The shepherd leaves his flocks upon the steep, The clansmen draw from many a Highland hill: The women arm them and forget to weep — Dear land of home! thy breed is noble still. G. R. M. AULD SCOTLAND STILL. fMr. Murray is an Aberdeenshire man, the author of “ Hamewitb,” and the permanent secretary of the public works department, South Africa.] The corn was turnin’, hairst was near, But lang afore the scythes could start A sough o’ war gaed through the land An’ stirred it to its benmost heart. Nae ours the blame, but when it came We couldna pass the challenge by, For credit o’ oor honest name There could be but the ae reply. An’ buirdly men, frae strath an’ glen,. An’ shepherds frae the bucht an’ hill, Will show them a’, whate’er befa’, Auld Scotland counts for something still. Half-mast the castle banner droops, The Laird’s lament was played yestreen, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 75 An’ mony a widowed cottar wife Is greetin’ at her shank alane. In Freedom’s cause, for ane that fa’s, We’ll glean the glens an’ send them three To clip the reivin’ eagle’s claws, An’ drook his feathers i’ the sea. For gallant loons, in brochs an’ toons, Are leavin’ shop an’ yard an’ mill, A’ keen to show baith friend an’ foe, Auld Scotland counts for something still. The grim, grey fathers bent wi’ years Come stridin’ through the muirland mist, Wi’ beardless lads scarce by wi’ school But eager as the lave to ’list. We’ve fleshed o’ yore the braid claymore On mony a bloody field afar, But ne’er did skirlin’ pipes afore Cry on sae urgently to war. Gin danger’s there, we’ll thole our share, Gie’s but the weapons, we’ve the will, Ayont the main, to prove again Auld Scotland counts for something still. Charles Murray, in the London “Times.” PAINTING THE LILY, Gilbert H. Collins, in London “ Opinion. ” The stalwart youth in civil garb was strolling down the Strand, When the dear old busybody button-holed him out of hand. “For shame, my fine young sir,” she said, “to waste your hours in play Are you idle when your King and Country call you to the fray?” “Yus, I’m aht o’ work just nah, ” said he, a twinkle in his eye; And the dear old busybody heaved a sad, reproachful sigh. 76 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR “Oh, come, my dear young man, and let me drive you straight,” she said, “To the next recruiting station!” but he grinned and shook his head. “Then do let me persuade you, ” she implored in accents wild, “Just to join the Territorials!” Again the stranger smiled: “Naw, I cawn’t just nah, me lidy, for to tell the ’oly truth “I’ve a gamey arm that ain’t well yet,” returned the stalwart youth. “Where did you get that hurt?” she asked. He answered her again: “Why I got it in the firin’ line upon the bloomin’ Aisne!” “WHERE IS THY BROTHER?” From the Ms. by W. B. Scofield. Build a strong fort that can not be demolished And then invent a new explosive shell That strikes the armored walls and, in the striking, Blows steel and masonry and all to hell. And build a ship like a great floating island, And man it with a thousand sailors brave, Then speed a sleek torpedo ’neath the water And send the ship and crew to Ocean’s grave. Or rear a church by centuries of labor, Whose spires point upward to the living God, Then train your cannon on its sacred turrets And bring the structure to the level sod. And teach the girl wife to become a mother, Who gives her sons her soul and heart and breast, Then mangle the fair bodies that she bore you And bid her say “Dear Lord, Thou knowest best.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 77 Prove once again that swords will cut through sinews, That bayonets pierce the flesh and split the bone, That nerves will quiver when they’re torn asunder, That hearts will break, ’though they were made of stone. And hear, at last, the Voice that once lamented, Above the altar of a shepherd slain, Of all your brothers It demands accounting, Speak, Knights of Kultur! Answer, Sons of Cain! Worcester Mass., Jan. 15, 1915. HE’D DESERT ON THE SPOT. Phyllis, your method of raising recruits Smacks of the press-gang a trifle. Here am I wearing impossible boots And marching about with a rifle Because you have said We can never be wed Until I am carried home wounded or dead. Now I’ve a number instead of a name; The cut of my clothes is atrocious: Daily I’m drilled until aching and lame, By officers young and precocious, Who force me to lie On my tummy to try And shoot an imagin’ry bull in the eye. Please do not think I’m unwilling to go — I’ve no intention of quitting; But, Phyllis, there’s one thing I really must know: For whom is that muffler you’re knitting? I don’t care a lot If by Germans I’m shot: But if that is for me, I’ll desert on the spot! Desmond Carter, London “Opinion.” 78 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR FOR FREEDOM Sons of Britain, famed in story for your valor in the _ fight, Heirs of an unsullied glory, guardians of our human right, Still the struggle looms before ye, fraught with the de- cisive hour. Still the menace hangeth o’er ye of the hated despot’s power; But with thoughts on vict’ry centred, striking as ye ne’er have done, This great battle ye have"entered, for our freedom shall be won. Sons of Belgium, ’mid the slaughter wrought by fierce outnumb’ring foes, Where your manhood’s blood like water ’mid your ruined homesteads flows, Courage yet a little longer! Those vile wrongs which ye endure Make our holy purpose stronger, and our sense of vict’ry sure. With a mighty emulation of the brave deeds ye have done For your wronged and sufl’ring nation, soon the battle shall be won. France, fair France, again invaded by a scheming, envious Power. By its savage hosts degraded in their brief triumphant hour, Brooding o’er the shame and measure of the deeds your foes have wrought, Mourning o’er each ruined treasure their unreasoning rage hath sought, Burning thoughts of indignation shall arouse each loyal son For a glorious reparation when the battle we have won. Russia, from the east descending on the ruthless foe- man’s land, To our cause the aid extending of thy strong deliv’ring hand, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 79 Lo! the justice of our mission for the welfare of man- kind (Now to crush the mad ambition of a Power so fierce and blind) With thy might shall bring salvation from the rising of the sun, And bring peace to every nation when the battle we have won. Friends of progress, wheresoever struggling towards the nobler life, Nothing can your purpose sever from the issues of this strife ; With the mailed fist of reaction raised to strike the fatal blow, Can your country, creed or faction blind you to the common foe? There is no real neutral nation, though the conflict they may shun, For the world’s emancipation this great battle must be won. Cursed Teuton, who with vision of supreme unques- tioned might Trod with scorning and derision on the sacred laws of right, By the proud aims thou didst cherish, by the just God over all, Thou and thy designs will perish and thy vaunting empire fall, And in Hell’s deep destination, when thy blighting race is run, Thou shalt. reap thy just damnation when the battle we have won. Glasgow. W. J. “POLAND AND FREEDOM AGAIN.” Arise! Men of Poland, arise in your might, For you morning breaks, ’tis the end of your night; ’Twas but for a season Hope bade you farewell, Now freedom’s bright dawn bids you wake from your spell. The world shall know ’tis a rising of men, When Poland awakens to freedom again. 80 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Let the Prussian hound feel the power of your blow; Set your heel on the neck of the Austrian foe. Vile cur! Cruel serpent! To both make it plain That Poland has wakened to freedom again. They shall know as they come and writhe in their pain That Poland has wakened to freedom again. Kociusko shall look from the land of the shades, And rejoice that the flower of your valor ne’er fades; With Campbell shall joy in the spirit to see That Poland again is a land of the free. Let the thought nerve your arms as ye add to the slain, Be your battle cry, Poland and freedom again! As the new era dawns awake from your spell, To give future ages the lessons to tell; They ne’er can be slaves who cherish like thee, The. hopes of the brave, the hearts of the free. You shall conquer by right, you shall quit ye like men, To the battle cry, Poland and freedom again! James Smillie. TO THE PRESENT=DAY GERMANS. Ye have turned your minds to evil. Ye have washed your hands in blood. Ye have made a solemn covenant with sin; Ye have sworn to carry carnage over continent and flood An eternity of empire to win. Ye have trampled on the peoples, Ye have crushed the poor and weak, Ye have filled the world with misery and death; Ye have laughed to scorn the blessing on the merciful and meek. fc' ^ And have quite forgot how fleeting is your breath. Ye shall not thus forever. Go unpunished of the Lord. Ye shall learn too late to call upon His name; When your hell-ambitions perish in the whirlwind of ' His sword, Ye shall pay for tears of blood with tears of shame. R., in “Worcester Gazette.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 81 THE WAR LORD. Destroyer of a world’s peace, Distributor of wreck and death; Thou, thou who dare’st Almighty God With each blasphemous, boasting breath — How wilt thou answer to His call, Thou who hast been the cause of all; A million peasants’ vengeful prayers Arise and beat upon His throne, The widow’s curse, the orphan’s cry, Each breathe thy name — and thine alone. God is not mocked, nor does He sleep, What thou hast sown ye yet must reap. The senseless stones have found a tongue To blazon forth thy deeds of shame; Their ruined beauties point to Heav’n, Thy monuments of deathless “fame.” And He, for Whom these walls were built, Think’st thou He ridd’st thee of the guilt? Insensate, brutal, mark thy hordes, O’erflow and devastate the land; Not war they wage, but murd’rous hate, That wastes the weak with sword and brand. Kindle thy fires. They still shall blaze For thee and thine through endless days. Thine was the vioce, the word of power, That loosed this flood of dread and woe; Thine was the murd’rous hand that smote And crushed a gallant nation low. Thine was the power, thine is the crime, Unrivalled in recorded time. ‘Eye for an eye, and tooth for tooth.” But what, in justice, is thy doom? It passeth man — -’tis God must judge — A Nero risen from the tomb. But still deep answereth to deep, What thou hast sown that must ye reap. Possilpark. Jean Cowan Paterson. 82 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR LETTER FRAE THE FRONT A’ ye wha are young single men— ’Boot the age, say, o’ ae score and ten, We are needin’ your help The Germans to skelp, To see this thing thro’ to the en’. Ye ha’e hum’ed, ye ha’e haw’d, ye ha’e hech’d When asked to come owre here and fecht; It’s a sin and a shame, Ye should stey there at hame, When we’re up against dooble oor wecht. Come owre, then, and gi’e us a haun’, Side by side wi’ us here tak’ your staun; Get ready and fit, And come owre for a bit; Ye’ll get share o’ the fechtin’ that’s gaun. It is we wha are bearin’ the brunt O’ the Kaiser’s onslauchts at the front; Tho’ there’s signs to be seen That his fechtin’ machine Is gettin’ a wee bittie blunt. Ye’d think by his airs and his talk That he was the cock o’ the walk; Craw he ever sae crouse, It’s o’ nae earthly use, We’ll bring him yet doon aff the bauk. The flo’er o’ his Prussian Guaird — Did we yield them a fit or a yaird? No’ as muckle’s an inch, Nor the breidth o’ a trench; Their bodies noo litter the swaird. Wi’ your help, I will gie ye my word That we’ll drive back the haill drucken herd Owre the banks o’ the Rhine, And droon the damned swine That put weemen and weans to the sword. Geo. Cunningham. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR S3 A HYMN TO THE NAMELESS Nameless the men of Empire! Thine is the name: Shine in the darkness, Britain, as oft of yore. Fuel are they for the beacon; thine the flame, Lifting thy freemen out of bondage of war. Tongue of the beacon, use us and answer tongue: Britain speaks to her own from sea to sea: Mother and child, lovers, and old and young, All at her word give all in the faith of the free. Doubt and darkness without, yet peace at heart; This is thy surety, Britain, to sons at bay. Laughing, envying none, they salute, they depart, Caught in the beacon’s glory — the nameless they. Hark to that fiery troop! They ask at release, “Britain, set on thy watch-hills, what of the night?” Heal not slightly this hurt; and cry not, Peace, Peace, where only is certain peace in the right. “Might that is lawless hath feet of iron and clay; Never may kingdom fashioned as thus endure— But of thy foeman’s love of his country, say, Honor to this Love is the might that is sure.” — Edmund Beale Sargant, in “London Times.” A PRAYER FOR HELP Canst Thou not hear us, Thou Almighty God? Are all our prayers like bubbles upward blown? The earth is shaking. Man and sea and sod, And all Thy winds together, making moan. Oh, sacrifice! Oh, tragedy sublime! The fathers old are marching with their sons, To fling themselves by thousands at a time Against the maws of the devouring guns! And where art Thou? The peoples rage like beasts; With faith foresworn and passion at its flood, They Thee forget, and at their dreadful feasts They lift to Thee strange flagons warm with blood. 84 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR And overhead, within the fenceless sky, Which was our own, and made for our delight, Are shapes like birds that slaughter as they fly, And sing of hate, with all the stars in sight! We whisper low, Are these the days, the days, The long, last days of all the years of time? Hide us, O God! Our cities are ablaze, Our rivers sicken with their crimson slime. If thou hast missed our voices from the choirs, How can we praise Thee while the bullets sing, And smoke wreaths curl above our dear desires, And faith flies slowly on a wounded wing? Maker of worlds, and hope of every race, Through warring camps, by suffering souls implored Send Thou to us from his exalted place Thy Angel Michael, with his flaming sword! Ellen M. H. Gates in “New York Sun.” THE MEETING. W. B. Scofield. What went ye out to see? Kaiser, and Czar and King, Whom do ye seek; Through pathways of the slain Shall Christ return to reign — Jesus, the meek? If you should find Him there, Pacing some battlefield, What would you say; Or, if brought face to face, How shall ye find the grace Sham6d to pray? If He should look at you, Gazing your soul into, Where would ye hide; Under great stacks of dead Cover your royal head, Or how abide? SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 85 If He should speak to you, Saying, “Thou lovest Me?” What answer give; “If so, then feed My sheep!” Could ye find tears to weep, Courage to live? If He stretched forth His hands, Once more forgiving you, Wouldst take and hold; Or, when the cross-scars seen, Wouldst cry: “I am unclean: My soul is sold?” Worcester, Mass., Oct. 22, 1914. MAN THE TRENCHES! Out in France our men are fighting, Fighting, cold, and death, and Hun; Wrongs of nations they are righting, Wrongs that else had all undone. Every inch of ground they’re gaining With a toll of life is won; Blood they pay in rivers raining For their places in the sun! Man the trenches, man the trenches! Fetch the powder, prime the gun! Blood old earth demands in drenches, Price for places in the sun. We who far behind are sighing, Praying that our men have won, Let us by our self-denying Share the task so well begun. Gold will help in mercy’s battle, Keep the wolf Want on the run; Ye who cannot scabbards rattle Buy your places in the sun! Man the trenches, man the trenches! Pay your portion, every one! Let the miser say he blenches! Book your places in the sun! 86 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR ENGLAND IN TIME OF WAR. Fight on, thou young hero! there’s help upon the way! The light horse are coming, the great guns are coming, The Highlanders are coming; — good God, give us the day! Hurrah for the brave and the leal! Hurrah for the strong and the true! Hurrah for the helmets of steel! Hurrah for the bonnets o’ blue! A run and a cheer, the Highlanders are here! a gallop, a cheer, the light horse are here! A rattle and a cheer, the great guns are here! With a cheer they wheel round and face the foe! As the troopers wheel about, their long swords are out, With a trumpet and a shout, in they go! — Sydney Dobell. THE SONG OF THE CAMP By Bayard Taylor “Give us a song,” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause, a guardsman said: — “We storm the forts tomorrow, Sing while we may; another day Will bring enough of sorrow.” They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 87 Voice after voice caught up the song Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong— Their battle eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder. BATTERY L Battery L of the R. H. A. — Oh, the cold gray light o’ the dawn — Woke as the mists were wreathing pale, Woke to the moan of the shrapnel hail; Battery L of the R. H. A. Sprang to their guns in the dawn. Six guns all at the break o’ day — Oh, the crash of the shells at dawn — And out of the six guns only one, Left for the fight ere the fight’s begun, Swung her round in the dawn. They swung her clear, and they blazed away — Oh, the blood-red light o’ the dawn — Osborne, Derbyshire, brave Dorrell, These are the heroes of Battery L, These are the men of the R. H. A. Who fought that gun in the dawn. Ay, that was a fight that was fought that day, As the gray mists fled from the dawn, Till they broke up the enemy one by one, Silenced him steadily gun by gun — Battery L of the R. H. A., One lone gun in the dawn. James L. Harvey, in “The Times.” 88 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE CALL OF THE TRENCHES By Fred C. Smale. I’ve been over across, and I’ve got my wound, Though only a small one, it’s true, A hole in my leg, the size of a fag, And I’ll soon be as good as new. They’ve sent me down here to my folks for a week, And, lummy, I finds it a treat To rest my fat head on the soft of a bed, An’ get pickles an’ pastry to eat. The parson he calls me an ’ero and sich, An’ brings ladies to pay me a call, Which is wuss than a raid from a Hoolan brigade, For of course, I’m no ’ero at all. I answers their questions, an’ tells them the yarn All over and over again. They ask mos’ genteel, “An’ how did you feel?” Which I finds it most ’ard to explain. All what has happened seems only a dream, As I look on the fields in the sun, All so peaceful and still, with the church on the hill, Just the same as ’twas ’fore it begun. But I just close my eyes, and it comes back again. The wounded, the dyin’, the dead, The trenches, the blood, the smoke, an’ the mud, An’ the scream of the shells overhead. My leg’s a bit stiff, but I’m feeling all right. I’m reporting to-morrow as fit. I’m bound for to go, though the missus says no, An’ wonders where next I’ll be ’it. I’m off back again, to the mud an’ the rain, An’ all they can say is no good, I want to be in at the finish— Berlin ! An’ I wouldn’t stay ’ome if I could. “Pearson’s Weekly.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 89 A BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG. By S. R. Lysaght in the “London Times.” The shores are blind, the seas are mined, The wild sou’westers blow; And at our posts on stormy coasts We cruise and seek the foe, Behind their forts in sheltered ports, Secure their ships may be; But the sea was made for sailor men And sailors for the sea! Through fields they sowed we clear a road In weather they don’t feel; Long watch we keep while they can sleep Behind the booms of Kiel. They lock us out and wait in doubt For orders from Berlin; But on the seas we hold the keys — The keys that hold them in! For blows they dealt below the belt, For mines their hirelings laid, For things like these that spoil our seas We’re out until we’re paid. In safety they, like captives stay, In danger we go free; For the sea was made for sailor men, And the sailors keep the sea! CAVALRY SONG. By.EDMUND Clarence Stedman, in “Boston Herald.” Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman’s fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! Halt!. Each carbine sends its whizzing ball: Now, cling! clang! forward all, Into the fight! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Dash on beneath the smoking dome, Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. Charge! Cling! clang! forward all! Heaven help those whose horses fall! Cut left and right! They flee before our fierce attack! They fall, they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel! The bugles sound the swift recall: Cling! clang! backward all! A CAMERON SLEEPS. Peace, perfect peace, and all around The stress and strains of battle sound, The starry sky its vigil keeps, — For, calmly, here a Cameron sleeps. . Your canopy is Heaven’s blue, But, the heather hills are far from you, The river, where your life was shed, Has all its silver turned to red. Now, we are proud — on that dread day You knew no flinching, no dismay. But met the shrapnel and the shell Undaunted, — and a hero fell! Peace, perfect peace, and all around Noises that drowned the pibroch’s sound, But wondering angels looking down, Struck all their harps in your renown! Peace, perfect peace, and all around The stress and strain of battle sound, Sleep soft; He reigns, all cowards scorning, — Your King will come, and name you in the morning. Glasgow, 18th November, 1914. C. M. Gordon. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 91 THE NINTH LANCERS. “Oh, the wild charge they made.” Melinite, lyddite, darkened heaven, But straight at the guns the Lancers rode By the light of the rage that within them glowed — Straight at the guns, the deadly Eleven, That had raked and shelled them seven times seven. With never a halt or a needless word, At the cannon in ambush our horsemen spurred, Knights of Liberty, glory’s sons And slew the gunners beside their guns, And captured the cannon, the roaring Eleven, That deafened the earth and darkened the heaven. Then their dauntless remnant came Out of the hurricane, out of the flame, Covered with smoke and dust and fame. Shout, you shires, with a chorus sent Ringing from Caithness right to Kent, From far Northumberland down past Devon, Shout for your heroes, Britain’s sons Who quenched in silence the thundering guns That darkened like doom the golden heaven The courage that lifted their hearts shall leaven All who in Britain’s name go forth From east and west, from south and north, Under the great Godspeed of Heaven. William Watson in “London Times.” THE GERMANS RETREAT Back from the walls of Gay Paree Your armies have been driven. Oh, Great War Lord of Germany, In vain your hordes have striven To pierce our gallant Allied Lines And reach your cherished goal! In life — to suit your bad designs You’ve paid a heavy toll. But, William, though, we’re well aware, For life you’ve no regard! 92 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Ah, cruel and blood-thirsty slayer, You’ve reaped a poor reward. For all the carnage on the sward, Red with the blood of slain, You’re ardent hopes have now been marred, Your fighting is in vain. For you may try to stem the tide, But that you’ll never do, For our undaunted Allied side Will see this struggle through. This bloody war you did begin, So peace we will have never Until you — “Butcher of Berlin!” Your power is wrecked for ever. J. A. Bain, Inverness. THE TRUMPETER. We hear him daily, far too soon, Announcing day begun, Before the setting of the moon, Or rising of the sun — For from our dreams he bids us wake, And find our boots for Britain’s sake. His plangent music drives us out To shiver on parade; All day it orders us about, And has to be obeyed — We take our breakfast, dinner, tea, At mercy of his melody. The regiment mustered for a drill Must note his briefest call; The halt or gallop at his will, The master of us all — His lips control the fearsome force That represents five hundred horse. And what of him, the man behind This brazen voice of power? Is he of superhuman kind, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 93 Some warrior grim and dour, Who thus manoeuvres with a breath Us, who’d obey him to the death? He’s five feet high, or rather less, A laddie pale and slim, Who’s seen, but seldom heard, unless His trumpet speaks for him — He wakes us early, yet, poor elf, Perforce must first be up himself! W. K. H. AN INTERLUDE. Out of the trenches the fighters came Stealing an hour from the cruel game. Respite they asked from the smoky din, Just for a moment a breath to win. Out of the trenches they crept in view — German and Briton and Frenchman, too; Scaling their way o’er the grimy wall — Briton and German and lively Gaul, Foemen and neighbors and brothers, all. There for a moment they dropped their hate, Greeting each other as mate and mate; Greeting with laughter the harmless jest, Merrily passing the hour of rest. Then from the bugle arose the call — Back ran Briton and German and Gaul, Fighters and foemen — and brothers all. — '‘Cleveland Plain Dealer.” THE COLONEL’S PRAYER. Corporal William Brown of the Seaforth Highlanders, who has lately been in hospital, was one of the first to leave for the front with the Expeditionary Force, and in an interview he told how. his colonel prayed before they went into action. Corporal Brown has with him the prayer put into verse as follows. Lord, ere I join in deadly strife, And battle’s terrors dare, First would I render soul and life To thine Almighty care. And when grim death in smoke- wreaths robed, Comes thundering o’er the scene, What fear can reach the soldier’s heart, Whose trust in Thee has been? 94 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE LONDON SCOTTISH. O old grey Mother that bred them, what of the sons ye bore? O some are lying among the slain where the snarling cannons roar With the bruised grape-juice on their pale dead lips, and the vine leaves stained with their blood For their funeral pall, while the dreich sky drips and the limbers churn the mud. O old grey Mother of Sorrows, why did they tryst with Death In a foreign land and you not at hand to speed their departing breath? They heard the cry of the stricken wife and the wail of the wandered bairns, And they remembered the old hill fights and the graves in the mountain cairns When their fathers fell on the purple heath for love of their hill-made laws Ere the old-feuds ended and old hates died in the worth of a common cause. 0 Mother, 0 old grey Mother, why are ye proud, so proud, Your eyes are dimmed with your sorrow but your old grey head is unbowed? Shall I weep for my bairns in their glory? Shall I whine that my sons were men? Let them fall from the ranks in hundreds, I shall fill up the ranks again. 1 have sons across the great waters as I have sons at my knee, And they will go at my bidding till the stricken lands are free. O old grey Mother that sent them, what will your prize be then? Widowed women and fatherless bairns by many a street and ben, And the praise of the whole wide world beside for my men that were truly men. C. J. K. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 95 THE SEARCHLIGHTS. Political morality differs from individual morality, because there ia no power above the State.— -General von Bernhardi. Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight, The lean black cruisers search the sea. Night-long their level shafts of light Revolve and find no enemy. Only they know each leaping wave May hide the lightning and their grave. And, in the land they guard so well, Is there no silent watch to keep? An age is dying; and the bell Rings midnight on a vaster deep; But over all its waves once more The search-lights move from shore to shore. And captains that we thought were dead, And dreamers that we thought were dumb, And voices that we thought were fled Arise and call us, and we come: And, “Search thine own soul,” they cry, “For there, too, lurks thine enemy.” Search for the foe in thine own soul, The sloth, the intellectual pride, The trivial jest that veils the goal For which our fathers lived and died; The lawless dreams, the cynic art, That rend thy nobler self apart. Not far, not far into the night These level swords of light can pierce; Yet for her faith does Britain fight, Her faith in this our universe, Believing Truth and Justice draw From founts of everlasting law. Therefore a Power above the State, The unconquerable Power, returns. The fire, the fire that made her great, Once more upon her altar burns, Once more, redeemed and healed and whole, She moves to the Eternal Goal. — Alfred Noyes in the “London Times.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 96 THE BATTLE OF THE DESTROYERS. “I aye telt ye what wad happen An’ ye see it’s a’ come true, When oor Navy starts afightin’, Fegs, they ken a thing or two. For they never miss the target, An’ each shot aye finds its mark; Aye, the German Navy’s tremblin’ Noo oor guns begin tae bark.” “But what is it, John, ye’re meanin’, Tell me what has happened noo?” My son simply waved his paper, “Aye, they ken a thing or two, For there’s no’ a Navy floatin’, An’ I carena wha they be, That can match oor Tars an’ Jollies; We are mistress o’ the sea.” “But excuse me, John, a minute, Dinna gang sae awfu’ fast, What has happened ye’re sae happy, Is the war a’ ower at last?” “No’ exactly, no’ exactly, That, I think, will last a wee, But the Navy’s gotten started, An’ they’ve started weel,” says he. “If ye’ll listen I will tell ye Hoo we gied the Germans’ socks; IJoo that weel-named ship Undaunted Under Captain Cecil Fox, Wi’ the help o’ four destroyers, Legion, Lennox, Loyal, Lance, Sank the Germans’ whole flotilla, Fegs, it reads like a romance. “It was off the coast of Holland That four Germans were espied Sneakin’ back tae Wilhelmshaven; ’No, ye don’t,’ our Captain cried; ‘Far too long ye’ve kept us waitin,’ SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 97 ‘Far too Iona ye’ve hid away In the safety of Kiel Harbor, But we’ll MAKE you fight to-day.’ “‘Clear for action!’ ” All were ready, And the men behind the guns Smiled in grim anticipation As they watched the fleein’ Huns. Guns of cruiser and destroyers, Every one trained on the mark, Then the order came, ‘Engage them,’ And the guns began to bark. “Not a gunner missed his target, Every shot was sent to tell, Lennox, Legion, Lance, and Loyal Did their duty, did it well. Captain Fox of the Undaunted Smiling grimly said, ‘Well done! For I owe them for a little Thing they did the Amphion!’ “And it soon was over, mither; Where, but lately there had been Four big German crack destroyers Not a vestige could be seen; Every one was at the bottom, While OUR loss of life was nil; To the Prussian Bully, mither, This will be a bitter pill.” Syne my son started singin’ “Britons never shall be slaves.” “That is true as Gospel, mither, While aloft the ’old rag’ waves.” An’ I’m o’ the same conviction, We’ve nae fear o’ German Huns, For we’ve proved, an’ maist emphatic, That we’ve MEN behind OOR guns. The best laid schemes o’ mice and men Gang aft agley, Especially when sic plans are laid In Germany. Dundee. Granny. 98 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE PRAYER OF THE MAN IN THE TRENCH. I shiver with the bitter cold And ache from head to feet And wrap my blanket fold on fold, As others do in lines untold, Till blood-soaked edges meet, And oh! but heavy is my heart! I think of home afar — The wife from whom I’ve had to part That I might help this war. That I might help this war, dear Lord, When all I want is peace! 0! Christ, who once was man with us, Pray God that it may cease! The dark sky lowering overhead Is stained with crimson flame. Beneath, the bloody field is spread With heaps on heaps of crushed and dead — To help their country’s fame, Crowd thoughts of home, alas! so far, Which I no more shall see Since I must fight this bloody war For my country’s victory. That I must fight for victory, Lord, When all I want is peace! O! Christ, who once was man with us, Pray God that war may cease! My comrade close beside me cries — Sinks dying at my feet — I crouch beside him where he lies, Amid the death that shrieking flies That all of us must meet. 0! little son of mine so far From all this bloody strife To save you I must fight this war — If need be give my life. Must give my life in war, dear Lord, When all I want is peace. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 99 0 ! Christ, who once was man with us, Pray God that it may cease! Amidst the shriek of shot and shell, Of dying groan and call, I fight this man-made, hideous Hell Until I, too, shall fall, Ah, love and home and peace afar! Through the cannon’s smoke shines clear! For me at least is ended war — I’m shot — and left in the rear! “Died fighting to the last,” dear Lord, When I only wanted peace. 0! Christ, who once was man with us, Pray God that war may cease! — Nannie Miles Durant, in St. Paul Despatch. FOR OUR SEAMEN. From “London Times.” Seamen, a song for you Down on the deep, Lovers may long for you, Mothers may weep; You shall not take your ease Home from the heavy seas Till from our enemies Secure we sleep. England believes in you, Seamen, her sons; Her high heart heaves in you, Venturous ones; Soon shall ye come to grips, Soon shall your long, gray ships Deal with their lightening lips Death from your guns. Songs shall be sung of you, Tales shall be told; Fame shall be young of you When we are old; 100 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Long through the countryside Shall their brave names abide Who fought, endured, and died Our peace to hold. FROM THE TROOPER’S DITTY. Ha! ha! how thickly on our casques Their pop-guns rattle shot; Spur on, my lads, we’ll give it them As sharply as we’ve got. Now for it: — now, bend to the work — Their lines begin to shake; Now through and through them — bloody lanes Our flashing sabres make! “Cut one — cut two— first point,” and then We’ll parry as we may; On, on the knaves, and give them steel In bellyfuls to-day. Hurrah! hurrah! for Church and State, For Country and for Crown. We slash away, and right and left Hew rogues and rebels down. Another cheer! the field is clear, The day is all our own; Done like our sires — done like the swords God gives to guard the Throne! — William Motherwell. WITH THE FLEET. Cruisers o’ the battle line Veerin’ through the gloom, Borin’ through the fog-bank, Snorin’ through the fume, Out to wake the thunder, An’ to start the crack o’ Doom, All along the Lowland Sea. Oh, it’s queer the things you’re eelin’ When the fog’s a-rollin’ down, “Ware’, lads, ’ware, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 101 Wi’ the mines awash to lee,” Till you’d sell your ’opes o’ Glory For the lights o’ London Town, “ ’Ware, lads, ’ware, For it’s up to you an’ me.” Then ram her round to starboard, An’ back along the zones, Where the mines are driftin’, An’ you feel ’em in your bones, An’ skin your eyes to windward For Mistyer Davy Jones Is out along the Lowland Sea. Then it’s tumble up, tumble up, Clear the for’ard guns. ’Alf a point to windward, An’ let ’em rip, my sons, An’ we’ll blow the German eagles Where Atilla and ’is ’Uns Won’t find em’ on the Lowland Sea. Cruisers o’ the battle line, Funnels all aroar, Reekin’ down the Dogger trail, Twenty knots or more, Out to clean the ocean up From Denmark to the Nore. All along the Lowland Sea. J. L. H. BIVOUAC SONG Gather round the camp-fires’ light, boys, I’ll sing you an hour away; We’ll be jolly awhile tonight, boys, Let tomorrow bring what it may. Our way has been weary and long, boys, Yet over the rolling foam We’ll go back on the wings of my song, boys, To the eyes o’ the girls at home. Then back let each heart incline, boys, To the isle across the foam. Where the stars of beauty shine, boys, In the eyes of the girls at home. 102 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR They were wet when we said good-bye, boys, And, whate’er the time since then, They’ll seldom be wholly dry, boys, Until we return again. When we’ve quelled the foeman’s hate, boys, And need no longer roam, A hundred welcomes wait, boys, In the eyes of the girls at home. But if they’re to weep our fall, boys, In the death-roll read each name, We’ll take care that grief shall be all, boys; They’ll have never a stain of shame. Be our battles lost or won, boys, ’Neath hut, and hall and dome, Pride will tell of our duty done, boys, In the eyes of the girls at home. AN ONLY SON On observing the first five names in the Roll of Honor published in the London “Morning Post” obituary column on a recent day were those of only sons, the father of an only son now serving with the forces wrote the following lines: — Buried in a nameless grave, Laid aside with other Brave, His life for King and Right he gave, Our only son. A handsome, happy, English boy, His soldier spurs yet hardly won, A father’s pride, his mother’s joy, An only son. He answered to the Nation’s call, We ill could spare our one and all, And prayed God would not let him fall, Our only one. But fortune failed him in the strife, Our pride was in a moment gone, We start again, just man and wife, Without a son. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 103 Grieve we? Yes, but not repine, We know a man with children nine, And every one in the firing line, Every one. For all should fight, and some must die; He takes his chance, does an only son, And parents bow and humbly cry, “Thy will be done.” A. H. D. A BRITISH NAVAL SONG We sweep the seas! Our glorious Flag unfurl’d From North to South, from East to West Shines o’er the world! Our cannon’s bellowing thunder Roars with the roaring waves — For Britain’s foes wild ocean holds Nothing but graves! We sweep the seas! On waters far and near Our signals flash, and write in fire Our meanings clear! No other land, no other race Can match our British men — They’ve won a thousand fights before, They’ll win again! We sweep the seas! We rule the restless foam — We struggle, not for place or pelf, We fight for Home!— Loud let our shout of “Victory!” Ring on the favoring breeze — Down with the foe ten fathoms deep! We sweep the seas! — Marie Corelli in the “London Mail.” 104 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE DEAD VOLUNTEER Here lies a clerk who half his life had spent Toiling at ledgers in a city gray, Thinking that so his days would drift away, With no lance broken in life’s tournament; But ever ’twixt the books and his bright eyes The gleaming eagles of the legions came, And horsemen charging under phantom skies Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. And now those waiting dreams are satisfied, For in the end he heard the bugle call, And to his country then he gave his all, When in the first high hour of life he died. And falling thus, he wants no recompense Who found his battle in the last resort; Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence Who goes to join the men of Agincourt. “London Spectator” THE BATTLESHIP REMARKS (By E. S. Martin.) I am the Indispensable, The sea depends on me. Without my aid there can’t be trade, Nor can a state be free. Whoe’er would plough the heaving deep And realize his will, My help must have, my power must keep, No matter what the bill. My ribs are stark; in mighty course Steel bands my entrails gird; With power of twenty thousand horse My whirling screws are stirred. With weight of twenty thousand tons On ocean’s tides I press. From ten miles off my artful guns The foeman can distress. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 105 Nor bale nor box my bowels hide, Except my needful stores. With nice machines my whole inside Is packed, and men by scores, No gainful errand wins me tool, My cruises yield no pelf, And though my bunkers choke with coal I burn it all myself. I’m built to stand a lawful shock; I don’t mind being hit; But when my bottom touches rock It jars me quite a bit. I hate — my bottom’s none too thick — Things not discerned till felt; Torpedoes do a dirty trick — They hit below the belt. This is my day. It may not be A long one, but it’s mine. It may go on for aught I see Till Mars takes down his sign. Men groan, and say I come too high; Ha! ha! What’s that to me? The Indispensable am I, And boss of all the sea. — In the February “Scribner.” THE MAN AT THE FRONT I ask not his name or his nation, Or whether his cause be right; How high or how low his station — Let’s pledge him a toast tonight! Whatever his creed or color, He is facing the battle’s brunt; From the Indus, the Rhine, Tay, Shannon or Tyne— Hurrah for the man at the front! On the Yukon his cabin is dreary, On the Danube his castle’s in gloom; In the trench his poor body is weary — That trench that’s so often a tomb! 106 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR But his soul is aflame with devotion, A fire that death only can quench; Let us send him from here a word of good cheer — Hurrah for the man in the trench! We are neutral, you say? Yes, my brother, God grant we may ever be so! But you thrill at brave deeds in another, Though he be your bitterest foe. So I ask not his name or his nation, Or whether his cause be right — To the man at the front, who is bearing the brunt, I give you a toast tonight! East Brewster. Michael Fitzgerald THE ’APPY THOUGHT Old Bill ’e was the cheeriest chap As ever ’eld a gun; ’Is gruel ’e took like hinfant’s pap — ’Ell could not stop ’is fun. When ’arf our boys ’ad ’orrid ’umps, An’ all was overwrought, Old Bill ’ud shout, “Look ’ere, you chumps, I’ve struck an ’appy thought!” An’ then, some’ow ’e’d make us laugh — ’E’d almost make us feel We’d killed a bloomin’ fatted calf An’ was fed up on veal! Whereas our bellies ’owled for bread, Our sperits groaned for sleep Upon that soft an’ barmy bed O’ mud four hinches deep. ’Is ’appy thought they alius came When all looked blushin’ blue; They bucked us up to play the game An’ see the dam thing through. ’Is smile was wuth a box o’ pills An’ pots o’ beer galore . There never was a smile like Bill’s Nor won’t be any more. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 107 Ho, ’e was brave an’ straight an’ fine, But ’e was glorious when ’E made ’is dash to fire the mine Which seven other men ’Ad boldly tried to do — an’ died Afore they reached the spot . Of course, ye see, sich things must be, Else Britain goes to pot. “So long, you chumps! ’Ere’s luck! Cheer oh!” Them was the words ’e spoke. ’E crawled a ’undred yards or so, Then hup! an’ went like smoke! We ’eld our breff to watch ’im sprint Thro’ yon most ’elfish blast — But God! ’ow we did yell when ’e Was on the fuse at last! Ho yuse, the mine went off all right; It done its dooty well. I dunno if Bill saw the sight, For nearin’ ’ome ’e fell. Ay, there was Bill a-layin’ still, A-smilin’ strange an’ cold. Yet seemed to ’ave an ’appier thought Than ever ’e ’ad told. J. J. B. THE COLORS OF THE FLAG What is the blue on our flag, boys? The waves of the boundless sea, Where our vessels ride in their tameless pride And the feet of the winds are free; From the sun and smiles of the coral isles To the ice of the South and North, With dauntless tread through tempests dread The guardian ships go forth. What is the white on our flag, boys? The honor of our land. Which burns in our sight like a beacon fight And stands while the hills shall stand; 108 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Yea, dearer than fame is our land’s great name, And we fight, wherever we be, For the mothers and wives that pray for the lives Of the brave hearts over the sea. What is the red on our flag, boys? The blood of our heroes slain On the burning sands in the wild waste lands And the froth of the purple main. And it cries to God from the crimsoned sod And the crest of the waves outrolled, That He send us men to fight again As our fathers fought of old. We’ll stand by the dear old flag, boys, Whatever be said or done, Though the shots come fast, as we face the blast And the foe be ten to one; — Though our only reward be the thrust of a sword And a bullet in heart or brain, What matters one gone, if the flag float on And Britain be lord of the main. Frederick George Scott, “Canadian Overseas Force” TO BERLIN There’s “a little, contemptible army,” Can crawl to a tune that’s true, And it’s crawling, crawling, crawling To Potsdam to settle with you. It’s busy to-day with pudding, For this is a Briton’s fare; But it’s left you the turkey to gobble, If you’re keen on a good nightmare! So here’s to a Merry Christmas, To the Allies on land and sea, And the blackest of days to Billy, The peace-breaking bully, from me. W. Davenport, 46 Swan Street, Congleton. In “Cas- sell’s Saturday Journal.” SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR 109 THE CONQUERING SCOTS WERE THERE . The German arm is strong; The German foot goes seldom back Where armed foemen throng. But never had they faced in field So stern a charge before, And never had they felt the sweep Of Scotland’s broad claymore. Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven Than came the Scottish band, Right up against the guarded trench, And o’er it, sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press — They meet the deadly brand! A dreary spot with corpses strewn, And bayonets glistening round; A broken bridge, a stranded boat, A bare and battered mound; And one huge watchfire’s kindled pile, That sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host The conquering Scots were there! — William Aytoun. THE TRENCH=DIGGER’S DREAM Fill me a cauldron, shoreless and profound. A cistern fathomless, thereunder light Such furious furnaces as would confound And rouse to ruddy envy Etna’s might. From this unsounded cistern then construct — With such gargantuan plumbers as must toil At waterworks in Mars — an aqueduct Along whose course torrential floods may boil. For I should like a bath: no common tub Will satisfy my yearning. You at home Lave in your household tanks and gently rub Your pinky persons in a soapy foam. 110 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR But think what such ablutions can be worth To us who excavate with patriot pick And soldier shovel in our land’s dear earth And bear that earth upon our persons — thick? No — build me these constructions, as portrayed; Divert a boiling river to my bath, Where I may sport, as gay sea-monsters played Before men’s navies churned the ocean-path. And bring me many hundredweights of soap, Loofahs and brushes many, sponges more, That with great labor I at last may hope To turn again the tint I was of yore. You must not bid me hurry: many moons You’ll hear me thrashing in that steamy deep, Steeped in its soapy billows. Then, eftsoons, Parboiled to pink perfection, I shall sleep. W. K. H. THE SWORD’S FATE Swords they were, made of the finest of steel, Keen were they — so that the foeman might feel Pain of the sharpest — with death standing near — Terror, and horror, and torture, and fear. Swords they were — bright with a silver-blue light, Cold as the moonlight on ice in the night, Merciless — hewing at flesh and at bone, Killing in thousands — or killing alone. Swords they were — then in a moment of peace, Men laid them down for a bit of release From all the fighting — and they were alone, Dull and forgotten as fragments of stone. Swords they were, but in the fire’s red heat They for the first time have suffered defeat, Poured into molds by a calm-loving race; They have come out with a plow’s noble grace. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 111 Oh that the swords of the nations might be Melted in fires, that over the sea Victors might say of their blood-reddened spoil; “Swords they were — now they are tilling the soil!” — Margaret E. Sangster, Jr., in “The Christian Herald.” TO THE HEROES OF THE NORTHERN SEA. We sleep, but ye awake that we may sleep There by your guns each gallant-hearted tar, You out-watch sun and greet the morning star Where the leviathans in prison keep Their pent-up hate, where foemen craft out-creep Beneath the wave to launch their bolts from far, While, charged with Death, swift wings and giant car Hover above you as they seaward sweep. Watch on, ye sleepless heroes, great our need Greater our thanks bold breakers of a yoke That Nelson broke to set all Europe free, True sons of that unconquerable seed Who watched at Cadiz till the morn awoke Which gave our Britain Empire of the sea. H. D. Rawnsley, in the “Westminster Gazette.” MAGNARD. [Alberic Magnard, the eminent French composer, was killed by German troops in the garden of his chateau near C9mpiegne, while defending his home- His largest, most characteristic and most important work was “Berenice," a music-drama that told of the love of this Syrian queen and Titus, emperor of Rome. Racine wrought the same story into one of his tragedies.J This one, who stood rebellant toward all treason’s guild, And held the muse more holy than the Valkyrs’ touch, Was called to shield his art against barbarian clutch And comes by this to die, defending home and field. A death that’s filled with brilliance, judgment, artistry! It is the perfect symmetry of work and fate! It lifts him high, as he wrought deep, for land and state! It sets him in the bounds of proudest poetry! 112 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Two shadows come to him to speak of Berenice; This hero brings their rivalry to full decrease. Build him a tomb from stones now on his threshold piled, And lay him ’neath his well-loved soil in sweet repose, This Son of France, who pride and duty reconciled, Sang like Racine, and died like Corneille at the close. Arthur L. Carnahan. WHICH? [Madame de Castelnau’s husband and three sons were at the frontier; the village cure, charged to break to her the neus of the death of her eldest son in battle, had not had time to apprise her when she, going to early morning mass, noticed his trembling hand, and divining that he had ill tidings for her, asked him in a whisper, “Which?”J Her sons went forth to battle in the glory of their youth — Her husband in the splendor of his prime — And she gave her loved ones freely with neither fret nor ruth, For the Calvary her bleeding feet must climb. From her chateau on the vine-crowned hills she passed each day to prayer, A gracious woman, surely bringing balm To the breaking hearts around her, and the peasant mothers there In the village gazed, and gathered of her calm. In work and prayer the days went by — those days of dread suspense, With work she strove their tedium to beguile, Those looking on her wondered, for although her eyes were tense No change e’er dulled the sweetness of her smile. But as one morn the holy cup the priest brought as she knelt ’Micl sculptured saints in every sacred niche, She saw his old hand tremble, and the coming doom she felt, Pale looked at him, and simply murmured, “Which?” Algiers. Mary M. Churchod. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 113 THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER. Loud and long the crowd are cheering, as with colors flying high, We are marching to the beating of the drums; Death and glory lie before us — well, we’re Britishers, says I, And we’re ready when the call to duty comes. Chorus. Down with Germans and with Kaiser; up with liberty and right. Oh, Great William will be wiser when we teach him Britain’s might. ’Mid the bullets and the cannon we will show a steady front ; Let them tear and smoke and thunder as they can. With a strong and steadfast courage, we will bear the battle’s brunt, And do our duty bravely every man. For our sweethearts, wives, and children, we have neither fear nor care; Our little isle is safe as safe can be; Our gallant territorials, watching, guard it everywhere And Great Britain’s queen, as ever, of the sea. So March! March on to glory and to victory, says I; On the Ocean and on every battlefield, VFe will chase them, we will beat them, and we never will say die — We Britishers will never, never yielded. Algiers. Mary M. Churchod. THE ZEPPELIN. Translated from the German by Arthur L. Salmon in The Academy, London. The day is done. In the gray twilight Still stands one fort That will not be silenced. 114 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The wind awakes, The vapors roll aside; From the clouds Appears a Zeppelin. Its steel-gray Turns crimson in the sunset. In its blood-red envelope Destroying death draws nigh. A swarm of bullets Hums towards it. It quivers and lays its course To the forts. Now it descends, Grown suddenly to huge size, And deals the death-blow To its victims. A star peeps forth— The summer night steals on; The last of all the forts Is silent. THE CAMP IN THE SANDS. Down in the hollow of the dunes one night We made our bivouac; serene and bright The autumn day drew to its early close. While still the west was red the moon arose And flung the witchery of her silver lamp Over the bustle of our hasty camp. Beyond the crested dunes the windy sea Murmured all night, now near, now distantly. And eerily round us we could hark The grass’s widespread whisper in the dark, As if the Little People of the Sands Gathered about us in their stealthy bands. % % sfc Jfc * Within the dip where our encampment lay The lines of weary horses munched their hay Or pawed the sand with quick, uneasy hoof; A glowing cook-fire flickered red aloof, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 115 From which a drift of soft blue smoke was blown: The loudest voice soon sank to undertone Amidst the empty space ’twixt sand and sky, Ruled by the moon that rose so splendidly. ifc All night, around the camp our watch we kept, Posted on crests of sandy billows; swept From eve till dawn by the unbroken wind, Our eyes towards the dark; our camp behind. W. K. H. NOT GERMANY. (Theodore C. Williams in “Life.”) Who first put steam to ship and car And conquered space on land and sea? Who cabled thought through oceans far? Not Germany. Who first trapped microbes under glass, Man’s ambushed, deadliest enemy, And bade foul plagues forever pass? Not Germany. Who from Daguerre his fame can steal? Who finished for the world to see “La bicyclette,” “1’automobile?” Not Germany. Who set the wheel where women spun To million-fold machinery? And what proud land bore Edison? Not Germany. Who laid on pain deep sleep and dark To still life’s utmost agony! Who flashed world-o’er the wireless spark? Not Germany. Who first like eagle rode the air, Columbus of that vaster sea? Who first to earth’s twin poles did fare? Not Germany. 116 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR But higher yet what lands display Darwin’s supreme discovery, The Curries, Lyell, Faraday? Not Germany. Who broke th’ hereditary throne Of kings, and set great peoples free? What land today is Freedom’s own? Not Germany. Go, Teuton boaster! Humbly scan What gifts thy peers have heaped on thee. Art’s triumphs were achieved by Man — Not Germany. THE ARMY COOKS’ COMPLAINT. We don’t go much for looks, Do us regimental cooks, An’ our cooking ain’t so toney as the Carlton or the Ritz But we don’t need no excuse, For we cooked the Proosian goose In a manner that ’ud give all other cooks in Europe fits. It were just down Wipers way — We was basting the ongtray An’ preparing smokeless cawfee, and inventing new hors d’oeuvres, When the Capting, in he stalks, An’ he shouted, “Cooks, down forks! The Germs ’ave rushed our trenches, and we ain’t got no reserves.” Then he gave us guns an’ shot, And we made the fire hot, An’ we made them Proosians mutton, and we served them with cayenne. ’Twas a spell of pure delight, Till we put ’em all to flight Then we went back cooking dinners for our ’ungry soldiermen. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 117 Did they cheer us? No! By James, They just called us all the names They could lay to, trimmed with langwidge that our troops in Flanders learnt. Just because (’twas mortal hard) While we whacked the Proosian Guard We ’ad let the ongtray frizzle and the taters all get burnt. C. W. C., in London "Opinion.” SCOTTISH FOOTBALL HEROES! In a Sarcastic Vein. Some sing of French and Joffre and some of Jellicoe, And some of those who offer to fight against their foe, But of all your khaki heroes there’s none that can com- pare With the Rangers, Celts, Hibs, Clyde, or Queen’s or Aberdeen or Ayr. Then here’s to the gallant army, With the fearless Hearts at their head, Who will play to the last of their blood and breath, Though the rest of the land lie dead; Then here’s to the gallant army, In which no heroes fall, Who will play to the very gates of Hell With a ten and sixpenny ball. There’s some fools fight for glory, and some to keep us free, And some for love of country — but, you bet, that’s not me. For Kaiser Bill may whack us, and devil the bit I care, If he’ll only let the League go on from Aberdeen to Ayr. Then here’s to the pick of the nation, To Paisley and Dundee, For so long as the good old game’s to the front. Then the Front will not see me; And here’s to the flower of our athletes, For ever crowned with fame, Who faithfully stood by the Scottish League And gave us our weekly game. 118 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR I read a silly letter from a chap that’s at the front, Who said that while the war was on the game should get the shunt. My gosh, I thought him nervy- — and the beggar getting paid— Why, what the deuce are we to do if football isn’t played? (Chorus — from France.) “You could come yourself to the Army, Don’t you hear the bugle and the drum! You could come yourself to the Army, And we can’t win till you come.” “Come myself to the Army; Well, here’s an offer to you; Let the Scottish League chuck up the game And join — then I’ll join too.” R. B., in “The Glasgow Herald.” THE LONDON SCOTTISH AT MESSINES Sons of the land of the hills and the valleys, Garbed in the kilt that your forefathers wore, Blood of the men who with Bruce and with Wallace In the forefront of battle the Red Lion bore, Glorious your deeds even as those of your fathers, Resistless like them in the wild battle fray, Bolder and stouter the more the foe gathers. Honor the lads clad in Scots hodden-grey! Proud is the Old Land — the land yours by blood-right, Though from her hills you have wandered afar— Proud is the Empire at your prowess and battlemight; No deed of dishonor your ’scutcheon doth mar. Yet why tell your praises in song or in story? We knew you would fight as you fought on that day; You’d not have been Scots had a German blade gory Pierced the back of a lad clad in Scots hodden-grey. Ages shall never diminish the glory Of the deeds you have written on history’s page, For sire unto son will pass on the story And tell of the wild dashing charges you made; SONGS OF THE GRFAT WORLD WAR 119 Shades of the dead from far Bannock and Flodden, Hovering above you expectant that day, Joyed that a courage as yet ne’er downtrodden Lived still in the lads clad in Scots hodden-grey. W. M. COCKBTJRN. THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA Translation from Schiller Showing what a great and true-hearted German Poet thought of Great Britain in those days, as compared with the vituperation by the Germans of today. Let us hope it is also prophetic of the present struggle. What means this vast expanse of sail outspread? What mean these thunders ominous and dread? On startled Neptune’s wave what shapes loom nigh, Towering like citadels athwart the sky? Never before Old Ocean bore Such dreadful load as these great forts afloat, Belching out death from every iron throat. “Invincible” the boast Of this portentous host, That, like impending Fate, draws slowly near O’er unresisting waves that shudder as in fear. And nearer every breath the sail that swells Brings it to thee, fair Isle, where Freedom dwells; Great-hearted Britain, Mistress of the Sea, This storm-cloud lowers and would break o’er thee! — How cam’st thou thus to be The home-land of the free? How didst thou gain this jewel that thou wear’st, The birthright now of every son thou bear’st? — Did not of old thy sovereign’s people’s might Wrest from proud kings the Charter of thy right? The sceptre of the sea, Was it not won for thee By many a gallant deed in many a hard-won fight? — Blush, nations of the earth, the palm award To Britain’s spirit and to Britain’s sword! But tremble now, fair land, this Titan-host, Breathing out fire and slaughter, nears thy coast. The nations of the earth look on aghast; Brave hearts and free Tremble to see The greatness of thy fall, remembering thy past. 120 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Then looked down God Almighty from His throne, Saw the dire peril that assailed His own, Saw the proud foe draw nigh With banners flaunting high. Thus spake He: Can I see My Albion fall? — That hero-race, which ever Stood, a firm barrier ’gainst oppression’s tide, And dared to face the tyrant in his pride? — Shall that dear home of freedom, where A man to be a man doth dare, Vanish and fall from off this earthly ball? Thus spake He: Never! Then stooped the Lord Almighty and breathed upon the seas. And that great fleet was scattered like chaff upon the breeze. From “London Observer.” PLAYING THE GAME R. T. t a Kilmarnock poet, grasps his harp and twangs out an ironic volley of shrapnel as follows: — “A British reverse,” that’s nothing at all, Go on with the game, pass forward the ball; Pass up the centre and keep the ball low. Steady now, steady, shoot, goal, a goal — o-oh! “The British hard pressed,” ah! well, nevermind, A goal’s a safe lead when facing the wind. Play up like Trojans, keep swinging the ball, There’s pluck in a charge, and fun in a fall. “British outnumber’d and forced to retreat.” What about that when the ball’s at your feet. Tip it and toy with it, drive it and run, Chasing the leather instead of the Hun. TWO SONNETS He has gone forth and fought his last great fight Against grim Death, the conqueror of all; Undaunted courage and a heart aright Availed him not. Ah! bitter was his fall. His golden spurs by feats of valor won, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 121 Once proudly worn, ere long will playthings be, And his true sword that doughty deeds has done Will burn with rust, and idle eyes will see. Oh what an ending for a worth so great, To be the spoil of dull debasing clay; At noon full plumed to thunder at fame’s gate, At eve disarmed, to stumble by the way. Yet this he’s gained, despite untimely doom, The love of men, no conquest can entomb. Long years will spread their mosses where he lies, And level out the mound above his breast; Tempests will rage from surly winter skies, But ne’er disturb the quiet of his rest. The pearly light that lifts the lark to sing, The amber cloud that bids the day adieu, And all the pageantry and sweet o’ Spring, Will stir him not who shelters ’neath the yew. He gave his powers to speed a goodly cause, Knew nought of fear when dangers did increase, Sought no reward, nor hungered for applause, And, dying thus, received the balm of peace. One hero more in him does Death possess, But we who mourn, alas, one hero less. J. Donald. POEM BY A WOUNDED “TOMMY” IN STOBHILL HOSPITAL The peace of the world is broken, The nations are at it again; And we must take part in the fighting, Which causes such sorrow and pain. We’ll fight for the love of our country, We’ll fight for our honor and name, And we’ll never rest contented ’Till Germany’s subdued again. We may have a very small army With which our foes to defeat, But British pluck and bravery Will make of them “sausage meat.” 122 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR They torture women and children, They wreck many happy homes; But the day of reckoning is coming, For we’ll suck them dry to the bones. We’ll teach them a very hard lesson, A lesson they’ll never forget; We’ll crush them once and for ever, For their sun has risen and set. M. S. G. THE BATTLE CHRISTMAS There are columns to be riven In the very face of hell, And the wild dumb beasts are driven To their doom of shot and shell. But above the shriek of battle And the chargers’ dying woe Sounds the lowing of the cattle In a manger long ago. There is midnight on the nations, There is hate instead of love, And the guns’ reverberations Shake the vaulted skies above. But beyond the thunders ringing As the foe replies to foe We can hear the angels singing On a midnight long ago. McLandburgh Wilson. THE IMPERIALISM OF IDEAS "The next great war shall be against conditions and not men." Our visions are the boundaries of our fate, Within whose magic circle we may sleep, But dreams are only dreams, and, soon or late, The thought must turn to action, small or great, Would we those boundaries win or visions keep. The clang of arms which rang in days of old, Resounding still within the minds of men, Awakes the spirit of the warrior bold Which occupies our heart when tales are told That bring the hero-lives to earth again. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 123 Though blood still flows in streams for some great cause, Inflamed by national pride and racial hate, The time shall come when our most glorious wars Shall be against conditions, and our laws Redeem the time and bless the growing state. And if our fate should be to win no prize, To fall while still the vision leads us on, Rewards and triumphs fading from our eyes, Beyond our grasp, while envy’s tongue decries The victories which we have hardly won; More than the goal we sought but failed to gain, More than the high-prized glory and renown, A noble life, our nation’s grander name, Shall be full recompense for toil and pain As manly worth outweighs a kingly crown. We mourn the comrades lost, the leaders slain, The many thousands who have bravely died, But as their visions live and we maintain Their faithful efforts, nought has been in vain, For death itself shall fight upon our side. “Christian Register” William Ware Locke YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, 124 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. — T. Campbell. THE TOY BAND A Song of the Great Retreat Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, Lights out and never a glint o' moon; Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon. "Oh! if I’d a drum here to make them take the road again, Oh! if I’d a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! "Hey, but here’s a toy shop, here’s a drum for me, Penny whistles too to play the tune! Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see We’re a band!” said the weary big Dragoon. “Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!” Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat; Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight With a little penny drum to lift their feet. Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! As long as there’s an Englishman to ask a tale of me, As long as I can tell the tale aright, We’ll not forget the penny whistle’s wheedle-deedle-dee And the big Dragoon a beating down the night. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 125 Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheed!e-deedle-deedle-dee. Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! — Henry Newbolt, in “London Times.” THE GORDON HIGHLANDERS No Scottish regiment can claim any more glorious traditions than that of “the Gay Gordons,” raised over a century ago by the beautiful Duchess of Gordon. In this war, the Gordon Highlanders, by their deeds of gallantry, have added to the laurels of Scottish s^diery. This song depicts the raising of the regiment and the charm of a beautiful woman over the brave Highlanders. The French upon Holland are marching, Marching wi’ sword and wi’ flame; “Now, wha’”, cries King Geordie, “will aid me, In driving the saucy loons hame?” Then up spoke the Duchess o’ Gordon, And bright grew her bonny blue e’e, “At hame, ’mang my kin in the Hielands, Are lads will take bounty frae me.” Wearing the tartan plaid, Bonnet and feather sae braw, The round-hilted Scottish broad blade, The kilt, the sporran an’ a’. A banner o’ silk she has broidered, Wi’ her ain fair lily-white hands, An’ wi’ its folds waving aboon her, She rides through the Gordon’s broad lands; And bunches of ribbons she carries, Of colors the Gordons aye wore; While stepping in time to the pibroch, The pipers gae sounding before. Wearing the tartan plaid, etc. A lad frae the hills cries, “I’m ready To gang whaur Your Grace may command. ” A ribbon she ties on his bonnet, A shilling she slips in his hand; And bending her down frae the saddle, She presses her rosy wee mou’ To his cheek, that grows red as the heather: — Oh! fast come the Hielandmen noo. Wearing the tartan plaid, etc. 126 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR They come from the Braes of Lochaber, From Badenoch’s passes they come; The deer in the forest of Athol Unscared and unhunted may roam; They come from the Craigs o’ Kinrara, They come from the links of the Spey, They come from the banks of the Garry, The Tummel, the Tile and the Tay. Wearing the tartan plaid, etc. Then up spoke the Duchess of Gordon — And the din of the gathering was still, And sweet rang her voice as the merlin’s When gloaming lies hushed on the hill — “When first I uplifted my banner, The leaves were green on the trees, Nae a’ leaf yet has fa’en, and aroun’ me A thousand brave clansmen I see.” Wearing the tartan plaid, etc. “Now take you the banner Lord Huntly, Of me no mother shall say, I keep my ain son from the peril While her’s I am wiling away; And when in the land of the stranger, And fronting the foeman ye be, Braw Gordons, look then on the banner, And think o’ Auld Scotland and me.” Then, hey! for the tartan plaid, etc. An’ gin the fair Duchess could see us, Assembled together tonight, When Gordons and Greys are foregathered, Wi’ auld recollections sae bright, It’s hersel’ would be prood o’ the gathering, And she’d say in her accents sae smoo’, “My bonnie braw laddies, come to me, I’ll kiss ye each one on the mou’,” Then hey! for the Gordon plaid, The bonnet and feather sae braw Three cheers for our Waterloo fren’s, Field-Marshal Strathnairn an’ them a’. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 127 AUSTRALIANS TO THE FRONT (Song in commemoration of the Australian Contingent sent to the Soudan, modernized, and equally appropriate to those who are now fighting in Egypt. It was the Australian Cruiser. Sydney, which gallantly fought and sank the fearless Emden which did such damage to British shipping in the Indian Ocean. All hail to the heroes of tropical Britain, The stout-hearted kin of old Albion’s isle! Who stand to their guns when her enemies threaten, To stir her war spirit — wellknown by the Nile. Tho’ wide roll the waves that divide us asunder, Our bosoms are British, — one family are we; And woe to the foe that would trample or plunder Our heritage,— freedom and power to make free. Then hurrah for our sons of the sunny Pacific, Who step with Britannia in peace and in war. We tempt not the war-trail, but wild and terrific Are the slogan and charge of the kilt and hussar. Strike a song to the transplanted oaks of Old England, That bloom by Murrambidgee’s blue-belted strand, The sons of our brave sires who faithfully cling and Shall follow and fight for their loved Fatherland. Australia is fresh in the youth of her greatness, And Britain is strong in her prowess of old; Let our enemies pause — in the past they have witness Of what we can do when our flag we unfold. High hope to the Austral, the Celt, and the Saxon, The sun never sets on our regal domains; Our flag waves in peace o’er the lovely Port Jackson Our pibroch swells proudly on India’s plains. Do the German-Austrians break peace with a nation In valor well-tried and in arms well-trained! If the Lion is couchant, yet much provocation Shall show his leap dreadful when roused and un- chained. The Shamrock, the Rose and the Thistle, once more, lads, We’ll add the Acacian flower of the south; The Jasmine we’ll place in the midst of the four, lads, And twine a fresh wreath of Victorian growth. Our country, our King, and her senators wise, lads, Our Army, and Navy by land and by main. Our Colonies strong in their federal ties, lads, We’ll cheer to the echo again and again. 128 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR BELGIUM’S GLORY. The sun sets fair o’er Belgium To the sound of the Vesper’s bell. And the evening hymns of the people Waft him a fond farewell; The peaceful vales and homesteads He bathes in a golden light, As a last bequest ere he leaves them To rest through the silent night. And the lingering beams cast a halo Of blissful peace and rest O’er the mother gently crooning To the baby at her breast. The sun sets red o’er Belgium, But the Vesper tolls no more, And the sounds that rise from the stricken land Are the red-mouthed cannon’s roar. The sun sets red o’er Belgium, O’er a ravished, blood-drenched plain, With her peaceful sons and fathers Lying dead ’midst the ripening grain. And the beams seek in vain for the mothers, For the homesteads where they stood, There is naught but blackened ruins, And the hearths are red with blood. The night descends o’er Belgium, But it holds no sacred trust, But a hell of unnamed horrors Of rapine, blood and lust! And surging through the darkness Rise the sounds of carnage wild — The cries of the childless mother And the wails of the motherless child. While, like fiends from the black pit breaking, Through the night leaps devouring fire, And the smoke pall rises heavenwards From a nation’s funeral pyre. But the sun shall rise o’er Belgium In a lasting glorious day, When the blood-red night and its powers have gone, And all tears are wiped away; SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 129 And the mothers shall tell to their children Of their sires’ undying fame — How the plighted word broke the tyrant’s sword, And how swift the vengeance came. And for ever adown the ages, While the tide of Freedom runs, The nations shall stand uncovered At the name of Belgium’s sons. G. S., in “Glasgow Record.” BELGIUM, 1914. Oh meadows of the Ardennes, cowslip-strewn, Winter’s last snowflake, spring’s first butterfly, Flickered where winds were censers, and the moon Bloomed like an Easter-lily in the sky! Oh city like a clear grey flower enshrined By dewy woods; the changing ways of you — The sun-baked walls where roses trail entwined, Bright holly in the frosty avenue. Oh tufted dunes, pallid and weather-worn, Vexed as the borders of a haggard dream, Twixt twisted trees like skeletons forlorn, The wet blue roads to Holland glint and gleam. Oh mellow towns of Flanders, great in years — Surely your guardian angel mourns your scars; Some black-stoled nun of universal tears, Fingering aloft a rosary of stars. Blossom and spindrift, forest, ruddy tile . A double scythe this dismal autumn wields; The low smoke shudders, mile on blackened mile, War gleans a second harvest from your fields! J. G. S. BELGIUM’S WRONGS MR. ROOSEVELT INSISTS THAT THEY MUST BE REDRESSED Mr. Roosevelt, in the third of his war articles, pub- lished in the “New York Times,” says: — England’s attitude in going to war, in defence of Belgium’s rights, represents the only kind of action that will ever make neutrality, peace, or arbitration trea- ties worth the paper they are written on. 130 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Belgium has shown heroism, courage, self-sacri- fice; and, great as is the penalty, the ultimate reward will be greater still. When the time for settlement comes, Belgium’s case will stand apart. No peace should be made until her wrongs have been redressed and the likelihood of a repetition of such wrongs provided against. “Glasgow Daily Record,” Oct. 12, 1914. SONNET ON THE BELGIUM EXPATRIATION. By Thomas Hardy. This s9nnet was contributed by the famous novelist to “ King Albert’s Book," a collection of tributes in poetry and prose to the homeless nation of Europe and that nation’s King, which was published in Great Britain in December. The sonnet appeared recently in the Glasgow "Herald." I dreamt that people from the Land of Chimes Arrived one autumn morning with their bells To hoist them on the towers and citadels Of my own country, that their musical rhymes Rung by them into a space at measured times Amid the market’s daily stir and stress And the night’s empty, starlit silentness Might solace souls of this and kindred climes. Then I awoke: and lo, before me stood The visioned ones, but pale and full of fear. From Bruges they came, and Antwerp, and Ostend, No caribous in their train. Vicissitude Had left these tinkling in the invaders’ ear, And ravaged street and smouldering gable-end. NOT THESE I PITY. By Margaret Sackville in the “ London Times” Not these I pity Who in the sweep and surge of battle die With passion in their hearts, but these The wrecks and ruins of the city, These million souls outcast, they know not why; Torn, tempted, outraged, driven overseas. For these what price Shall the inexorable laws demand? Upon their heads what heavy toll is set? Theirs is the sorrow and the sacrifice. Their tears have watered the waste lands. When God remembers, who shall pay the debt? SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 131 “THE BLIND MAN AND HIS SON.” “The distant boom of angry guns No longer fills my ear. Oh! whither have we fled, my son! Tell me, that I may hear.” “Father, we are in England!” “No more I hear the stormy wind Amid the rigging roar, I feel beneath my tottering feet The firm ground of the shore, Is this the end of all our woes? Shall we not suffer more?” “Father, we are in England!” “I hear the sound of kindly speech, But do not understand, I feel I’ve wandered very far, Far from the fatherland; How comes it that these tones are not Those of an unknown land?” “Father, we are in England!” “I feel in all the air around Freedom’s sweet breath respire, I feel celestial fingers creep Along my quivering lyre; The birds, the trees, the babbling streams Speak to me of our home, Why does my grief less bitter grow And rest so dear become?” “Father, we are in England!” “Bend down upon thy knees, my son, And take into thy hand, Thy wounded hand, and mine, somewhat Of the earth of this good land, That, dreaming of our home, we too May kiss the Soil of England!” “London Observer,” Jan. 3, 1915. 132 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR HARDY APPEALS IN VERSE FOR HUNGERED 7,000,000. The following poem by Thomas Hardy was written for the Commission of Relief in Belgium and forwarded by the poet to the commission at 71 Broad- way. It was issued recently as an appeal to America on behalf of the Belgian destitute. Seven millions stand Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land — We here, full-charged with our maimed and dead, And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore, Can soothe how slight these ails unmerited Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore! Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band Seven millions stand. No man can say To your great country that with scant delay, You must, perforce, ease them in their sore need: We know that nearer first your duty lies; But — is it much to ask that you let plead Your loving-kindness with you — wooing- wise- — Albeit that aught you owe and must repay No man can say? BELGIUM THANKS AMERICA. By Mme. Emile Vandervelde. Today it’s Christmas morning: we hear no Christmas bell, But still we tell the story which once we loved to tell — “Goodwill,” “Goodwill” — we read it: and “Peace” — we hear the name, And crouch among the ruins, and watch the cruel flame, And hear the children crying, and turn our eyes away. For them there’s neither bread nor home this happy Christmas Day. But look! there comes a message from far across the deep, From hearts that still can pity, and eyes that still can weep — O, little lips a-hunger; O, faces, pale and wan There’s somewhere, somewhere, peace on earth, some- where goodwill to man, Across the waste of waters, a thousand leagues away, There’s someone still remembers that here it’s Christ- mas Day. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 133 O, God of Peace, remember, and in Thy mercy keep The hearts that still can pity, the eyes that still can weep: Amid the shame and torment, the ruins and the graves, To theirs, the land of freedom, from ours, the land of slaves, What answer can we send them? — we can but kneel and pray — God grant, God grant, to them at least a happy Christ- mas day. Christmas, 1914. WHAT ARE YOU DOING FOR ENGLAND? What are you doing for England, Women of our domain? For we know indeed in the hour of need We look to you not in vain. You can’t go and fight, but there’s plenty of work That none but you girls can do. If you play your part with a brave true heart, You can help us to pull things through. “London Mail” THE WIDOW’S MITE. (Five thousand men have gone at their country’s call from the Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides. At Garrabost, Skye, Scotland, one widow has given her seven sons to her country’s cause ) There’s a little widow at Garrabost, Across the Western sea; She had seven brave sons, and when the guns Rang out their call, said she: — “They are giving their best from East and West For the sake of all that’s dear. I’m a poor old wife that’s lived my life — : I would keep my loved ones here. For the yellow corn must be gathered in, And the boat must go to sea, There’s the croft to keep, lest hunger creep To the heart of my boys and me. 134 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Yet I cannot lie down in my bed to sleep For the call comes over the wave; And I say to my heart — Now bear thy part! O little woman, be brave! There are widows and wives that wail and weep In a sorrowing land afar, Where martial might slays Truth and Right, In the blood-red tracks of war. So I rise in the dark and wake my lads, Though the salt tear dims my eye; And I send them away in the dawning grey, For the sake of those who die. 0 lone is the croft, and the sea is lone; Yet, though my heart must bleed, ’Twere better the brave should lie in the grave, Than shirk their country’s need. ” O little woman of Garrabost, Across the Western foam, God keep your sons, till the vengeful guns Drive crime and rapine home! L. M’L. W. A SONG FOR WOMEN. We cannot go with the fighting line, Or help to fire a gun, Or do the deeds that will ever shine Till the nation’s life is run. But we can help with a courage high To bid our men good cheer, With a stirring word instead of a sigh And a smile instead of a tear. Chorus: With never a sign of aching heart, With courage in our face, We will do our work and take our part For the glory of the race. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 135 For the men the march and the roll of drums, And the battle’s fiery breath, And the mighty chance that with them comes Of glory — or of death. For women, the spirit that sends them there With a courage twice their own, The pride that never knows despair And a faith that knows no moan. The men can follow where Nelson led, And Wellington and Drake, And the brave unnamed in ages dead Who fought for their country’s sake. We women of Britain, too, shall add A page to history, F or we give our dear ones — and are glad ! For the cause of Liberty. Elizabeth Baker in the “London Daily Chronicle.” GREY KNITTING. All through the country, in the autumn stillness, A web of grej r spreads strangely, rim to rim; And you may hear the sound of knitting-needles Incessant, gentle, dim. A tiny click of little wooden needles Elfin amid the gianthood of war; Whispers of women, tireless and patient, Who weave the web afar. Whispers of women, tireless and patient— “Foolish, inadequate!” we hear you say; “Grey wool on fields of hell is out of fashion.” And yet we weave the web from day to day. Suppose some soldier dying, gaily dying, Under the alien skies, in his last hour Should listen, in death’s prescience so vivid, And hear a fairy sound bloom like a flower— I like to think that soldiers, gaily dying For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep May hear the fairy click of women’s needles As they fall fast asleep. — Katherine Hale, in the “Toronto Globe.” 136 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE HELPERS. Last night the moon rose in a shroud; The misty valley deep Was silent as a lonely cloud That sails o’er worlds asleep. The shrouded moon on fields afar Rose on unshrouded slain — The harvest of the scythes of war That reap the living grain. I saw in vision host on host Hurled through the fiery gloom, Yet came no word of battles lost, No murmuring of doom. I saw the seed of English shires Flower on the fields of France, The blood-red battle-bloom our sires Carried on sword and lance. Then was I ’ware of myriads vast Who these with ardor fed — Spirits of soldiers of the past Who died, but are not dead! C. K. B. “Glasgow Herald.” THE PATRIOT. Fve destroyed all our gramophone records Of the Wagner and Beethoven school: Kate’s eau-de-Cologne in the dustbin Fve thrown, With her slippers of Viennese wool. I have poisoned her favorite dachshund; I have given our fraulein the sack, And Fve broken my boy’s mechanical toys With the Teuton’s trade mark on the back. Fve renounced all Bavarian brewings, And my middle-day lager as well. On champagne I exist, and with courage resist The seductions of hock and Mosells. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 137 My cigarettes now are “all Russian,” A Belgian attends to my hair, While Paris supplies every one of my ties; Thank Heaven that I’ve done my share! Dudley Clark. “London Opinion.” ON THE DESTRUCTION OF RHEIMS CATHEDRAL. Alas, fair France! With thee we stand and weep The piteous vigil at thy side we keep. Thy sacred shrine is dust, thy splendid towers No longer watch for him man’s changeful hours. The generations come in hopes and fears, But nevermore return the golden years — The years of beauty, we shall raise no more The Gothic arches, nor their aisles restore. Thy fathers, strong in early faith, once gave Till Time should end the glory of this nave, Gone in one hour — flame where thy saints once trod- — Vengeance is Thine, oh haste, avenging God! M. C. Leigh. THE CHIMES OF TERMONDE. The groping spires have lost the sky, That reach from Termonde town; There are no bells to travel by, The minster chimes are down. It’s forth we must, alone, alone, And try to find the way; The bells that we have always known, War broke their hearts to-day. They used to call the morning Along the gilded street, And then their rhymes were laughter, And all their notes were sweet. 138 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR I heard them stumble down, the air Like seraphim betrayed; God must have heard their broken prayer That made my soul afraid. The Termonde bells are gone, are gone, And what is left to say? It’s forth we must, by bitter dawn, To try to find the way. They used to call the children To go to sleep at night; And then their songs were tender And drowsy with delight. The wind will look for them in vain Within the empty tower. We shall not hear them sing again At dawn or twilight hour. It’s forth we must, away, away, And far from Termonde town, But this is all I know to-day — The chimes, the chimes are down! They used to ring at evening To help the people pray, Who wander now bewildered And cannot find the way. Grace Hazard Conicling, in the “Atlantic Monthly. ” A VISION OF LOUVAIN. Above the blackened smoke that rolled From sacked Louvain’s cathedral old, Three Spirits paused in evening’s glow And viewed the holocaust below. The first was Goethe. Cold, serene, He gazed upon the sorry scene. “How strange,” he mused, “that men, incensed At living men, should rage against Such walls as these, where Flame hath fed, — The works of better men, long dead!” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 139 The second Spirit veiled his face. “Shall these be men of our own race,” He cried, “that come in ruthless bands To war on homes with firebrands?” “Peace, Schiller, peace! — though such things be,” Quoth Lessing, wisest of the three. “Speak no reproach of what they do, Or they will name thee ‘Traitor,’ too; And then be sure these Devil’s cooks In just revenge will burn thy books!” THE TRUE STORY OF RHEIMS. (A serial story, received in instalments by wireless from Berlin.) Monday. — Tuesday. — Wednesday. — Thursday. — Friday. — Saturday.— We are accused — the charge appals — Of shelling Rhierns Cathedral walls. Such liars should not be at large, Our culture clears us of the charge. There was a slight mistake it seems, A shot or two was fired at Rhierns; But do not call us modern Huns, We never used our biggest guns. These bestial French arouse our ire. It was their fault the church caught fire. They mounted guns upon the fane And forced us to fire back again. Off with your hat, your voice lift up And join with us in praise of Krupp. One shell from out our biggest gun And Rhierns was battered and undone That tale from Rhierns was quite untrue, The church is just as good as new. And this report you may believe; ’Tis only Frenchmen who deceive. Rheims church in ashes lies. To grieve Us culture-folk before we leave The treacherous French have burned it down, You ought to see the Kaiser frown. X. 140 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR MADONNA OF TERMQNDE Within a convent in Termonde An image of the Virgin stands Serene, with half uplifted hands And eyes that seem to look beyond The mutability of things; Around, war’s ruthless ravagings, The shattered roof, the crumbling wall, Are like a sacrilege malign, And yet some power — was it divine? — Impalpable, impending there, Has spared the image and the shrine That cast a glamor over all And bid the soul to bow in prayer. A miracle, so some would say; An omen. Be this as it may. The sweet Madonna face inspires The thought: Above the conflict fires, The hates, the base desires that sway The heart of man. God watches still And works toward that diviner day When good shall triumph over all. —Clinton Scollard, in the “New York Sun.” MY NORMANDY. The following poem was written by a French prisoner of war in Wurtemberg. Before the war he was professor of German language and literature in a Nor- mandy university. He wrote the poem in German, and Frederick F. Schrader’s translation in the Fatherland follows: Alien tongues and alien legions, Alien scenes around me teem. Am I still in fancy’s regions? Do I wake or do I dream? Still I hear the roar and rattle Of the camion, fierce and deep, And I see the god of battle O’er my native valleys sweep. Still the dull reverberation Of the thunder fills my ear; Scenes of carnage desolation, Haunt my memory even here. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 141 From embattled walls my vision Sweeps o’er alien land and dome, While my heart on holy mission Sends a thousand greetings home. Where the shades of night are falling — Yonder, where I fought for thee. Thee for whom my heart is calling: My beloved Normandy. Yonder sun, serenely beaming, Shines alike on friend and foe; Over yonder shells are screaming, Battles raging to and fro. Here a peace-enjoying nation, Far from tumult strife and dread — Would that war’s fierce devastation Had descended here instead. These the rude barbarian minions, Planning early, planning late, To dismember our dominions, Filled with envy and with hate? Were these homes and pleasant places Fashioned by barbarian hands? No, I say! No noble graces Ever throve on barren lands. Quiet, love of home, submission, Faith in God, is what I see; Pleasing prospects greet my vision, Beautiful as Normandy. When they led us through the city, Enemies, cast down in cheer, Throngs were watching as in pity, And in many an eye a tear. Not as chained slaves did they meet us, Bent beneath the ruler’s rod; But as equals did they greet us, Brothers still in sight of God. Who, then, fanned this conflagration, Filled our hearts with fierce distrust Of this proud and noble nation, Calm, and sober strong, robust? France, thy gallant sons are dying, And thy fields are desolate; Not thy foeman, but a lying Friend has sealed thy iron fate. 142 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Traitrous friend, thy favor suing, Dragged thee down in infamy, And in thy complete undoing My beloved Normandy. THE KAISER’S PRAYER. The Latest Ultimatum. Thia "poem” was wr'tten by an American and published in the Glasgow “Daily Citizen” Dec. 29, 1914. Gott! Dear Gott! Addentions, please! Your bardner Vilhelm’s here Und has a vord or two do say Indo your brivate ear. So durn avay all odders now Und listen veil do me, For vhat I say concerns me much — Meinself und Shermany. You know, dear Gott, I was your frendt, Und from mein hour of birth, I quietly let you rule der Heffen Vile I ruled o’er der earth. Und vhen I toldt my soldiers Of bygone battle days I gladtly split der glory Und giff you half der praise. In efery vay I tried do prove Mein heardt do you vas true, Und only claimed mein honest share In great deeds vat ve do. You could not haf a bedder frendt In sky or landt or sea Dlian Kaiser Vilhelm Number Two, Der Lord of Shermany. Now, vat I say, dear Gott, is dis: Dat ve should still be frendts Und you should help to sendt my foes To meet dere bitter endts. If you, dear Gott, vill dis me do, I’ll nuddings ask again, Und you und I vill bardners be Vorefermore. Amen. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 143 Bud listen, Gott, it must be quick Your help do me you send, Or else I haf to stop addack Und only blay defend. So four and twenty hours I gif To make der Allies run, Und put me safe into mein blace By der middle of der sun. If you do dis, I’ll do my bart, I’ll dell der vorld der fact, But if you don’t, den I must dink It is an hostile act. Den var at vonce I viil declare, Und in mein anger rise Und send mein Zepp’lin ships to wage A fight up in der skies. Dis ultimatum, now, dear Gott, Is one of many more; Mein mindt is settled up to clean Der whole vorld off der floor. Because you vas mein bardner, Gott, An extra schance is giffen; So help ad vonce, or else I’ll be Der Emperor of Heffen. SENSET. Behold the sun, above the misty sea Is whelmed, as in his blood. Black clouds on high With brand of lightening cleave the lowering sky, Save where the western wave glows mournfully! 0 Lord of Day and tranquil harvestry And fruitful love! Thy dreams of peace must die; Over the western world, thy beams go by; And cliff and headland bid goodnight to thee! Alas, in this vast war must all things fair Perish at once, when Death reaps everywhere His ghastly harvest o’er a million graves! Honor and Faith, Virtue and fair Renown And Love and Hope, moaning in blood go down — And night shuts in, over the storm-tossed waves. Henry Harmon Chamberlin. 144 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE PRICE. Not only mourn the brave who died at morn, Who struck their blow and perished in their pride; But mourn the unlived lives who also died, Vain hopes of generations yet unborn. Nor mourn the stricken children bayonet torn, Shell driven o’er the blazing countryside; But mourn Man’s twilight and his eventide, And brotherhood betrayed, and faith forsworn. Yea, chiefly mourn the most heartrending cost, Two thousand years slow progress spent and lost, This goodly oak cut down as by a sword. Brother of Death, Sin’s crowned and armtkl birth, How long shall this new Anarch reign on earth, Unsmitten of Thy thunderbolt, 0 Lord? Henry Harmon Chamberlin In ‘ ‘Worcester Gazette.” TO GERMANY AND HER APOLOGISTS You say that Russia lit the flames of war; And England’s envy started it; and then Torn Belgium started it; and yet again France for her vengeance ’gainst your rising star. But God, who watches from gray skies afar The tribulation of the sons of men, The damning truth will come within His ken. He knows you for the miscreants that you are. Twice did the nations beg that your ally, The Hapsburg Eagle, let her prey go by, Till the world’s judgment made her grievance plain; And ye have twice refused; and blood ye spilt With solemn counsel of deliberate guilt, Yours be the brand, and yours the curse of Cain! —Henry Harmon Chamberlin. GOD AND THE KAISER. The Kaiser in his balcony, he talks from dawn till dark, To flushed expectant multitudes who hearken in the park, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 145 How ’tis war, red war, for a place in the sun For his God and his zeppelin and big crook’d gun. The Kaiser ’mid his myrmidons cries out from morn till night, How all his foes are always wrong and he is always right, How they fight for the right and his God will be true, To the Prussians and the Austrians, whatever they may do. They may steal the land in Posen, tilled by the Polack spade; They may sabre boys in Alsace for smiling at parade; They may trample folk in Belgium, where his armies violate The words his sires have sworn to for every neutral state. They may shoot the farmer in the ditch and burn the village down; They may ravish all the women for their overlord’s renown ; Nothing’s wrong for the strong, and his God is on his side Who even honest decency may therefore override. Arise, arise! beneath the skies, too long this tyrant brags ! Ravage his lands from Baltic sands and Montenegrin crags ! O advance, gallant France! and scatter his fell powers, And wave once more the tri-color from Strassburg’s sacred towers. And England, thou, whose realm is now world’s free- dom and the sea, Behold, once more, on Flemish shore, there’s stern sad work for thee! For the Lord and His word, ye must smite with your rod The bloody, treacherous idol whom the Kaiser calls his God. 146 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 0 Thou great Power, who at this hour, still in the heart of Man In silent justice of Thy love, dost work Thine holy plan. When all his pride is cast aside in everlasting shame, Have mercy even on this poor fool who doth blaspheme Thy Name. Henry Harmon Chamberlin In “Worcester Gazette.” BY WIRELESS FROM BERLIN. Little I need, my wants are few, No simpler soul has been; Merely a continent or two, With oceans in between. Why grudge the mild and gentle Hun His right to gambol in the sun? A statue in Trafalgar Square, Where Nelson used to be; If London needs a hero there, They’ll surely jump at me; And wildly cheer me as they go, Llpon the ’bus to Pimlico. A shooting-box to suit me could Be found across the Tweed; A country place in Norfolk would Be very nice indeed. I like Balmoral, truth to tell, And Sandringham would do as well. The English should be pleased to get A Kaiser for their King. How insular to be upset, About so small a thing! It seems absurd to have to fight, Because I want the Isle of Wight. R. Arkwell. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 147 THE GERMAN SAINT. If ever you climb to the knees of the gods, You’ll find a benevolent soul Who in armor and paint tries to pose as a saint, And thinks nothing of men as a whole. It’s not at all likely you’ll ever get there, For the friends of the gods are select; But try wholesale murder, or burn down a town, You might then be considered elect. Or perhaps you would like to shake hands with the ghoul Who claims kinship with beings on high. Show your sympathy then, kill some women and men And their children leave homeless to die. You will then have complied with the rules of the few Who in sorrow will cheerfully try To chastise a whole world, have the occupants hurled To perdition, and heed not their cry. J. S. HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. (With apologies to the Shade of Burns.) “ He is a barking fox, and will bite and do a lot of mischief yet. ” Bismarok on the Kaiser. 0 Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Receive this message from meinsel’, For, Lord, I think that I’ve done well, A’ for Thy glory, In sendin’ sinners’ souls to hell, Then hear my story: — Ye ken that Grey, the clever loon, Did a’ he could to keep me doun, Thocht that yont Belgim I’d come roun’ To get to France, Where I had vowed that late or soon I’d lead a dance. Thou kens, Lord, I had ta’en an aith, Alang wi’ France and Britain baith, To keep wee Belgium free o’ skaith Or enemies’ caper; But did they think that I’d keep faith Wi’ a scrap o’ paper? 148 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR To Belgians offer fair I made, If they wad ca’t a piece o’ trade, And let me through to France. I said I’d pay them well; They scorned my offer, disobeyed, Sent me to hell!! Thou hast seen how wi’ muckle care, That their whole country I’ve laid bare Wi’ cannon, rifle, sword and spear In bluid knee-deep, And left mine enemies nae mail' Than eyes to weep. Thou kens I’ve been a clever chiel, I’ve been as cunnin’ as the de’il Tryin’ to mak’ the British feel I them did like; While wi’ my fist, weel mailed wi’ steel, I meant to strike. When my auld granny died I wot, When at her funeral I grat, At uncle’s, too, my e’en were wat, I did my share; And lots o’ sympathy I gat For showing’t there. And Thou hast seen, and Thou dost ken How me they’ve marred, aye now and then, And now they’re like to do’t again, Unless Thine aid Ye grant. Wi’ it we twa shall en’ Their power and trade. It’s four months now since I began To carry out my lang-made plan, An’ tho’ I’ve brocht up a’ my clan I’m no near Calais. Smite them, 0 Lord, wi’ Thy right han’ Thae cocksure Allies. 0 Lord, if Thou could ’st see Thy way To send a storm doun here some day To sink their fleets, the while mine lay Safe up at Kiel, I’d gie Thee a’ I hae and say Thou had’st dune weel. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 149 Then after I did France subdue, I’d nail the Czar and a’ his crew, And do the same wi’ Servia, too, Just as Thy servant. On knee, I pray for this I do, Wi’ voice most fervent. Lord, then I’m sure I’d hae a chance O’ crossin’ owre the seas frae France, The British beat. I’d then advance, Thine own appointed, Conquer the world wi’ shot and lance, The Lord’s anointed. Thou kens I’m cursed baith far and near, Because I haud Thy name sae dear, E’en ministers been heard to swear (They micht been wiser), An’ that in words baith lood an’ clear, “God damn the Kaiser!!” And some there are far ’yont the seas Misca’ me sair, and wad me seize. We’ll pick a craw, when I get ease, ‘Bout German “Kultur.” They want me change my emblem, please, To Monster Vulture! Grant me, O Lord, this prayer divine, And also bless aye me and mine, An’ I’ll aye help baith Thee, and Thine Until the en’. We twa will rule the war Id richt fine. Amen! Amen! Kilmarnock. Thomas Ktllin. WILHELM AGAIN. (With acknowledgments to R. L. Stevenson.) It’s strange that a’ the British claim Britannia rules the sea, An’ clean forget to explain the same To an Emperor like me. 150 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The donnered French and Russian folk Their weird they weel may dree, But their armies are a pig in a poke To an Emperor like me. The Belgians kenna richt frae wrang, They suffer, bleed, and dee; But a’ their woes are an empty sang To an Emperor like me. It’s a different thing that I demand, Though humble as can be — Unchallenged sway o’er sea and land For an Emperor like me. Each foe maun bow before me yet With a plain apologie, Or deevil a ceevil word they’ll get Frae an Emperor like me. * * * * * * * * Added in another hand: — “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men” — And Kaisers — gang agee ; But soon the Day is coming when Nae Emperor you’ll be. A. S., Jun. THE KAISER’S DREAM. Ye dauntless Poles, th’ Imperial dreams, Are much disturbed of late with schemes, And scraps of paper, bombs and raids, And floating mines and ambuscades, And howitzers, Divine machines, That, helped by heav’n and submarines, Will spread our Hunnish “kultur” over, And smash to bits a dog at Dover. And I look on while cannon fodder Seek out some fishing-smack to prod ’er; And hymn on my Imperial lyre, Like Nero fiddling ’mid the fire. Awhiles, I browse on other things, And sympathise with dusky kings, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 151 Pigmy and bandit, Copt and Kurd, And other men of whom I’ve heard, But most of all, my cultured soul Bemoans thy lot, O gentle Pole, And longs to see my sway expand, And dignify my Fatherland. The other night, after a bout With leberwurst and sauerkraut, I slept the sleep of just and true, As Attila the Great would do; When, suddenly, in dead of night, A wondrous Figure hove in sight, Who handed me my sword close by. And bade me save the Poles or die. So Poles, ye will agree with me, The Virgin and the Deity, Unite, as is most clearly shown, Their counsels with my cultured own. A. W. H., in the “London Evening Standard.” GERMANY’S NAVAL “VICTORY”. Drink to “The Day!” the glorious day When culture’s faith was justified, When alien ships in proud array Were rent and sunk beneath the tide; When Wilhelm’s triumph was complete Over the British (fishing) fleet! Did Germans fear the British guns; Not they, for there were none to fear; The Fatherland’s impetuous sons Dashed to the conflict with a cheer, So fiercely eager they to greet The mighty British (fishing) fleet! At sowing mines behind our backs, At scuttling under fullest steam, At sinking helpless fishing smacks, The Kaiser’s heroes stand supreme. Here’s to the day when they shall meet Our Fleet that’s not a fishing fleet! London “Evening News.” 152 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR WEELUM’S “KULTL'R.” Ca’ canny, Weelum! canny, please! Your pious cants an’ fulsome lees — “Paris plague-struck,” “London ableeze” — May weel appease them; The lang-bow you can draw wi’ ease, An’ tune’t to please them. Bauld Ananias, famed lang syne, Was but a stripplin’ in your line; A Prince o’ leears, he fails to shine Up to your reaches; But then, he lacked the Kultur fine That Berlin preaches. Nae doot he did his very best — Leein’ to God was no mean test — Degraded, piloried, the detest O’ saunts an’ sinners; Yet his best wark, ’gainst yours, contest ’S’a mere beginner’s. But you are Gott to Germans keen, Your feet o’ clay they’ve never seen; Hence you can fill them to the e’en Wi’ orra stories — A’ ither tales o’ what has been Are allegories. Guid feth! their culture proves their Gott, Proclaims them a puir doitet lot, Hand-fed, deluded as a sot Wi’ clumsy cantin’; True culture feels the mair it’s got, The mair’s awantin’. Swelled head, not culture, is the name Will yet redound to German fame; Not of the head can you acclaim It’s worth or merit — Nor of the heart, nor of the wame, Nor e’en the spirit. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 153 For o’ the hash you serve to please them Their innocence alone can ease them, Till Revelation comes to tease them, Wi’ your mad capers, An’ retribution firmly seize them Owre scraps o’ papers. You say your cantin’, murderin’ Huns Are God’s peculiar chosen ones; God’s serving wi’ them at the guns, The world to capture, For German Kultur German buns Wi’ holy rapture. Puir feckless souls! Such rot believe! Their simple faith you weel deceive; Black bread an’ ale they a’ receive, Horse flesh and tallow. Fouk that wi’ that can work an’ leeve Ocht else can swallow. Carnoustie. J. B. A CRISIS IN BERLIN. The King was wearing an anxious air, The kingly soul was sore; Furrowed his brow with the vexing care Of running a cultured war: For the present problem imposed a strain On even his superhuman brain. So truly heroic had proven they Who fought for the Fatherland. Fie had given his iron cross away With a far from niggardly hand; Till now no soldier was not possessed Of a bauble to hang on his manly chest. For Hans had one for — I can’t recall, And Fritz for — Heaven knows what; And Heinrich’s deed was the best of all, Though its nature was quite forgot. Yet crosses remained, a goodly heap: He’d a natty machine that made them cheap. 154 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Must his busy factory stop for lack Of heroes to find it work? But here the Imperial smile came back — The future was free from murk. “The problem is solved; let sadness cease: My soldiers shall have a brace apiece.” “London Opinion” Theta. THE CALAIS OF OUR ALLY. The Kaiser sings: — Of all the towns that edge the coast Of France, I’d like to sally With all my mighty armies most To Calais, pretty Calais. If only I could reach that spot And feast my eyes on Dover! A fleet of submarines I’ve got To take my soldiers over. Then we’d haul down the Union Jack And hoist the German Vulture, And every English town we’d sack To show our German culture! “London Opinion.” M. B. H. SONG OF THE LANDWEHR. Britishers at the front have been vastly amused by the song of the Landwehr which was found in the pocket of a dead German and translated and distributed to Tommy as he sat in his trench. Here is the effusion: — A SONG OF WAR. First sung by the 14th Co. 1st Bn. 106th Landwehr Regt., 24th Division, 19th Army Corps. Composed by Lieut. Kotzoh. Tune — “The Vicar of Bray-sur-Somme.’’ Hi! Nicholas, my pretty chit, Take my advice and hop it! Git! We’ve just begun to stretch our legs; We’ll catch you sure as eggs is eggs. We Landwehr, Ho! Landwehr, The stamping, ramping Landwehr. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 155 You too, you tiny President, You’re getting too impertinent; If you don’t mend your manners quick We’ll dust your breeks the same as Nick, We Landwehr, Yah! Landwehr. The stamping, ramping Landwehr. And you, King George, whom nothing shames, We’ll soon be sailing up your Thames, Making a truly German noise, For we’re the Kaiser’s bonniest boys, We Landwehr, Rah! Landwehr. The howling, scowling Landwehr. So off together brawlers three Unless you want to taste the Spree; But ere you do your triple scoot You’ll feel the Landwehr’s hefty boot Just land where, The Landwehr In early boyhood tanned were. Peter, you knave, in Servian sty, Franz Joseph comes to wipe your eye; No need to pray on bended knees — We listen to no weaklings pleas We Landwehr, Yes, Landwehr, The dashing, slashing, Landwehr. Sing, Austrian brother, jodel, shout, The German Landwehr pulls you out; Surely you hear our Battle Call, “Kaiser and Country,” and (’bove all) The Landwehr, Ho! Landwehr, The God’s own Chosen Landwehr. 156 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR “H0CH DER KAISER!” Rear Admiral Coughlan of the United States navy, who died recently, will be chiefly remembered because he recited, “ Hoch Der Kaiser,” at a dinner of the Union League Club a couple of years ago, and almost created international complications by doing so. The verses are as follows: Der Kaiser von das Fatherland Und Gott and I all dings command; We two — ach! Don’t you understand? Meinself — und Gott ! Vile some mer sing der bower divine Mein soldiers sing “Die Wacht am Rhein,” Und drink der health in Rhenish wine Of me — und Gott! Dere’s France, she swaggers all aroundt, She’s ausgespieldt — she’s no aggound To much we think she don’t amound Meinself und Gott ! She will not dare to fight again; But if she shouldt, I’ll show her blain Dot Elsass and (in French) Lorraine Are mein — by Gott! Dere’s Grandma dinks she’s nicht schmall beer Midt Boers and such she interfere: She’ll learn none owns dis hemisphere But me — und Gott! She dinks, good Frau, from ships she’s got Und soldiers midt der scarlet coat Ach! We could knock dem, Pouf! like dat, Meinself und Gott! In dimes of peace, brebare for wars, I bear der helm and spear of Mars, Und care not for den thousand Czars Meinself — midt Gott! In fact I humor efry whim, Mit aspect dark and visage grim; Gott pulls mit Me and I mit Him, Meinself — und Gott! W. A. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 157 A HINT TO THE KAISER. An English lady who has returned from Berlin states, “ It is absolutely true that the Kaiser’s hair has turned white since the war began.” When haughty Kaiser stoops to folly And finds too late that he’s a guy, What art can soothe his melancholy, What transformation can he buy? The only art that’s sure to please him, To hide his white locks from every eye, To contradict their tales about him, And to surprise them is — to dye. “London Opinion.” H. B. L’AMENDE HONORABLE. To conciliate the remaining population, concerts are being given by the Germans in Belgian towns. We have ravaged your homes, we quite admit, We have butchered your babes ( ’tis thus we fight) ; For you were scanty and few, though fit, And we were many, and might is right. But you shouldn’t keep feeling angry. Hark! There’s a German band in your local park. We would fain be friends (having done our worst) ; They lie who label us harsh and rude ; We love to be blessed instead of cursed; We have murdered your wives, but you must not brood, Nor weep for the fate of your plundered land, For isn’t that cornet solo grand? You still can be happy beneath our sway, The German isn’t at heart a brute. Our Princes have quite a friendly way (As long as there’s nothing about to loot.) List to the melodies, soothing, fine, From (< our well-trained troupe of performing swine! Theta. 158 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR JOHN’S PUNISHMENT FOR THE KAISER. “I’ve been thinkin’ deeply, mither, O’ this war in Germany, Wonderin’ when at last it’s over What the Kaiser’s fate will be; Wonderin’ will they hang or shoot him, Or imprison him for life, For there’s no’ the slightest question He’s the cause o’ a’ the strife. “They hae lost a’ready fechtin’ Quite a million men, I see; Whaur he’ll get mair to replace them Is a mystery to me. But ye’ll notice tho’ the Kaiser’s Sacrificin’ thousands, still His ain skin is kept in safety. Trust the Berlin Butcher Bill! “Could they only catch the Kaiser O’ the war there’d be an end, For the Berlin Bully hasna In the warld a single friend. Catch the Kaiser, that wad end it.” “Hoo’d ye punish him, my son?” “Weel, the sentence I wad gie him, Fegs, wad be a novel one! “I wad hand the Bully over To the widows o’ the men Wha hae lost their lives in battle, Ye’d see what wad happen then! I wad hand him to the mithers Weepin’ for their slaughtered sons, To their tender mercies I wad Hand the leader o’ the Huns! “For as shair as heaven’s abune us, Shair as earth gangs roond the sun, Condign punishment’s awaiting Wilhelm, alias The Hun. Mither, mark my words,” he added, “For his madman’s act he’ll pay, And the hale warld’s lookin’ forward To the coming o’ ‘The Day!’” “Dae ye think ’twill last much langer?” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 159 “Last much langer!” laughed my son, “No, it won’t, their back is broken, Soon we’ll hae them on the run. Prussia is invaded, mither, An’ it somehoo seems to me Soon will be spellin’ Prussia. Minus the first letter — P. “On the west we’re still advancin’, Scottish regiments to the front, Chasing Germans oot their trenches, Bearin’ everywhere the brunt. Saw ye hoo the London Scottish Gained their laurels in the fight? Hoo they pit three times their number O’ the German troops to flight? “Then, again, in China, mither, Prussia’s got anither whack, Tsingtau’s fallen to the Allies, Kaiser’s got anither smack. Everywhere he’s been defeated, Land or sea, it’s a’ the same, It’s ’boot time the ’Potsdam. Poltroon Hid his head in very shame! “But I wish ’twas ower an’ done wi’, Christmas Day is near, ye ken, Christmas, when we bury quarrels — ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to men.’ Let us hope it will be ended, Prussia conquered lang ere then, Peace on earth, a peace that’s lasting,” An’ I whispered, “John — Amen.” Dundee. Granny. WEEIUM’S STRATEGY. He planned to keep Britain frae sidin’ wi’ France — But it didna come aff — it didna come aff. To Paris he meant a triumphal advance — But it didna come aff — it didna come aff. He promised at London wad haud Hallowe’en Wi’ squibs that the like o’ had never been seen; We trem’led a wee when the message was gi’en — But it didna come aff- — it didna come aff. 160 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR He thocht that the Cape would revolt to a man; But it didna come aff — it didna come aff. A Moslem uprisin’ was next in his plan, But it didna come aff— it didna come aff. He vowed that he’d batter his road to Calais, And maister the Channel for a’ we could dae; But as far as I read what the neswpapers say— It hasna come aff — it hasna come aff. He ettled to scuttle the British navee; But it didna come aff — it didna come aff. And syne we wad ken what invasion wad be; But it hasna come aff — it hasna come aff. To say ’twill be aye sae wad maybe be rash, But here is a guess that will naebody fash — What wey is his strategy like his moustache? It disna come aff— it disna come aff. W. W. THE GREAT “1 AM.” Tbe following appeared in an American newspaper about fifteen years ago. It is peculiarly appropriate: Translated from a German memorandum found in tbe Emperor’s personal waste-paper basket. The original has been presented by tbe finder to the British Museum. — John Kendrick Bangs. Oh Me! Oh My!! And likewise I!!! Sit still, my curls, while I orate. Me, I, Myself, The Throne, The State, I am the earth, the moon, the sun All rolled in one ! Both hemispheres am I. Oh My! If there were three, the Three I’d be. I am the Dipper, Night, and Day, The North and Southern Poles, the Milky Way, I am they that walk or fly on wing, Or swim or creep. . . I’m everything. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 161 It makes me tremble like the aspen tree To think I’m Me! And blink like stars up in the sky To think I’m I! And shrink in terror like a frightened elf To realize that I’m Myself! Ye blithering slaves beneath my iron heel, What know ye of the things I feel? Didst ever wake at dead of night And stand in awe of thine own might? It took six days to make the land and sea, But centuries were passed in making Me! The universe? an easy task! But I — Oh My! THE GENTLE GERMAN. From Berlin comes the explanation that the works of art looted in Belgium and France were only “removed for fear that they might be damaged.” Kind friends, all these stories are wide of the truth, That label us roughly as Vandals; To call us an army deficient in ruth Is simply the basest of scandals. Our cultured endeavors have had from the start The aim of affording protection to Art. Right swift to our minds, when we happen to see A picture in hamlet or city, Comes the thought “Were this hurt in the smallest degree The Kaiser would think it a pity; The tidings would probably bring back the pain (In his cardiac regions) produced by Louvain. ” In this (and this only) the reason is seen For the zeal which our leader evinces. This makes it less hard to distinguish between Gutter thieves and Imperial Crown Princes. He wouldn’t be furthering Culture’s advance, Did he leave an art treasure in Belgium or France. 162 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Though a prejudiced world with our infamy rings, Yet surely on history’s pages, Our deeds will appear as delectable things In the judgment pronounced by the ages. Generations unborn will lament the decline Of the civilised race that was whacked on the Rhine. Theta, in “London Opinion.” BLOUDIE BILL. An August Legend, After Ingoldsby. O, why doth thine eye gleam so bright, Bloudie Bill, O, why doth thine eye gleam so bright? The Fatherland’s sons May have horses and guns, They may fight all the day, and sit tight All night, But they’ll never get round on the right. Thy laughter is pleasant to see, Bloudie Bill, Thy laughter comes pleasant and gay; “The contemptible French And his Army entrench, But we haven’t a moment to stay, To-day; And we shoo the poor fellows away. “Then Paris lies open to Us (Bloudie Bill), In a week she comes under Our hand. Next London shall feel The full weight of our heel — By October the 10th we shall land, As planned, And proceed up the Mall (with a band).” O laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, Bloudie Bill, O laugh not, I pray thee, so clear; Art thou totally blind To the danger behind? SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 163 Look! the Cossacks are coming! They cheer, “We’re here.” They are thundering up in thy rear! Thy answer comes ready and quick, Bloudie Bill: “In a week We have France on her knees; Then We pillage and bum, Do a right-about-turn, And mop up the Tzar at Our ease, And seize Just as much of his land as We please.” 0, thine eye is prophetic and keen, Bloudie Bill, There’s a splendor that shines on thy brow; “ ’Tis done! We have won Such a place in the sun As no one can take from Us now; So bow To Us, the All-Highest. Wow-wow!” 0, why doth thine eye gleam so bright, Bloudie Bill? Doth the tear in thine eye make it right? Von Kluck and his Huns Had the horses and guns; They could fight all the day; they could fight All night . But they never got round on the right ! A.A.M. in “Punch.” THE JUDGMENT DAY. What wilt thou say in the judgment day, Son of the vandal and Goth, What wilt thou say in the judgment day, When the God is all of wroth? The rivers of Belgium are red with blood; Its youths and its men are slain; Its fields are black with the fires of war; Who will restore them again? 164 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Why didst thou go like a thief in the night, To the house thou didst not own, With pistol and sword, and lance, and gun, And break its barriers down? Weep for the dead and say the lament, Thy terrible work is done. For thou hast trampled on Flanders and France, Seeking thy place in the sun. James E. Ives. THE KAISER— ON TOUR. By Hugh E. Wright. There’s a five-act drama “Culture” That they’re playing out in France: I’s managed by the Kaiser, And the Crown Prince does a dance! ’Its opening date was Paris With a flying matinee At Antwerp, for the Belgians— ’E was going through that way. But the Belgians didn’t like it, And the flying matinee — Exceptin’ for the “flying” part — Was not a grand success: And ’is opening date at Paris Somehow went a trifle wrong. For ’e found the Allies starring there, And going very strong. ’E’s booking dates for England now; But really, ’pon my word, I don’t think we should like it, Bill, I think you’d get the “bird”! You’re not much good at touring: If you want to make a hit, I should sit down for a minute, And rewrite the piece a bit. Your Empire p’raps may like it, And your Palace think it great; You ’aven’t been a big success On tour, though, up to date. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 165 And when you do get ’ome you’ll find, If you don’t ’ave a care. That you ’aven’t got no Empire, And your Palace isn’t there! TO THE GERMAN CHANCELLOR. We fight because we had to fight, And not because we dare; We fight because to fight is right, When peace would mean despair. We fight because we are afraid Of what our sons might say, If Belgium in her tears still laid, When comes the reckoning day. We fight because in honor, France Held justly to her word; While you, to further hell’s advance Scorned treaties as absurd. We fight because we have brave men, Whose free and peaceful blood Still flowers from the root and stem Of British motherhood. We fight because we hope to win For right, and not for fame; To let you conquer would begin Our never-ending shame. We fight because we love God’s peace, That melteth in war’s flare; To win the sooner men may cease This senseless, wine-like snare. J. H. Pelzer. THE SONG OF THE CAESAR. I am the Caesar of forces, a ruler Glad, mad for power and eager for quests; I am the peer of them, I have no fear of them, What are the problems of men are my jests! 166 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR I am the Caesar of forces, a kingdom Brilliant with glory of light I unlock; Mine is the glow of life, Mine is the show of life, Mine is the glamor — the virtue — the shock! I am the Caesar of forces, my kingship Who can deny with the lips of the truth? Men come and go — not I, Tides ebb and flow — not I, Mine is the gift of perpetual youth! Roscoe Gilmore Stott, from the “Edison Monthly” TO THE CENSOR (UBER ALLES). On Reading Mutilated German and Dutch Messages. Censor, Censor, of the War Must we wonder what you’re for? Watching news with eagle eye Like a flier-man in the sky. Watching, and — —to leave no clue Pencilling till all is blue: Nought survives your playful pranks Save the rubbish and the blanks. Censor; Sane men do not crave Drivel about knuts who shave. What they wish (and you ignore) Is for tidings of the War. Censor! Amster — , Rotter — , Pots — dam well know the news that dots, Asterisks and dashes show Me there’s that I must not know. If the Kaiser’s spies, sir, read News in Deutschland stale and dead, It need only make you laugh When they tell the G. G. Staff. Censor, give your ear to me While I make my humble plea. You incense me: Now from hence — forth, sir — cense with common-sense! A. F. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 167 THE KAISER— AND GOD. “Led by Wilhelm, as you tell, God has done extremely well You with patronising nod Show that you approve of God. Kaiser, face a question new — This — does God approve of you?” Barry Pain in the “Times.” KAISER IN HOT WATER. From H. Cecil Latham, to the Kaiser: — We’ll forgive yer for yer murders, An’ yer bloomin’ awful swank, We’ll forgive yer lust for greatness, An’ yer so-called culture rank, But you ’ave got in ’ot water With us British workin’ men, For the nasty turn you done us When you closed the “pubs” at ten. “London Opinion.” “SWOLLEN=HEADED WILLIAM.” Look at William! There he stands, With the blood upon his hands. His moustaches daunt the sky, Pointing to his great Ally. What of Heaven William thinks Is no riddle of the Sphinx, But a matter much more dim, Is what Heaven thinks of him. E. V. Lucas, in “Cassell’s Saturday Journal.” THE DISAPPOINTED UHLAN. Marie Van Vorst in the “London Daily Mail.” My brother Fritz has seen Termonde And all the country there beyond; And Franzel helped to sack Louvain And saw the streets piled up with slain, And houses with their roofs on fire: But I have not seen Paris, Sire! 168 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The Prussian Guards have Brussels seen And marched the goose-step on the green Of private park. The th Hussars Have seen old Antwerp ’neath the stars Wait for the Zeppelin’s murderous fire: But I have not seen Paris, Sire! The Russians have seen Lemberg and The forts where Danzig’s sentries stand; And what the Russians have not seen Perhaps they’ll tell us in Berlin, With victor’s pride and hearts on fire. And I have not seen Paris, Sire! I came from far beyond the Rhine, To see new lands, to drink strange wine, To kiss strange women’s lips and lay Their lands waste, and their men to slay. My friends saw Rheims Cathedral spire: But I have not seen Paris, Sire! Und Du, who led us on, who drew Us from our peaceful homes? Ach, Du, Whose eyes with greed were fastened on. The great dome of Napoleon, To crush a nation dared aspire! Such monarchs have their Paris, Sire! BLOOD-GUILT. By Frederic George Scott. (Canon Scott is rector of St. Matthew's Church, Quebec City, and chaplain of the Eighth Regiment, Royal Rifles, of Quebec. He is now at Salisbury Plains, England, as chaplain with the Fourteenth Battalion, Canadian Over- seas Force.) The brand of Cain is on your brow, Emperor ! A crown of gold may hide it now, Emperor But when the day of reckoning comes, When flags are furled and hushed the drums, When labor goes with bruised hands To plough once more the blood-stained lands, A people’s wrath will rend the skies And topple down your dynasties, Emperor ! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 169 In vain you call upon the Lord, Emperor! You boast of honor and the sword, Emperor! What god will bless the hideous flood Which drowns the world in human blood? The vengeance of a broken trust Will grind your empire in the dust, Till Hohenzollern crowns are cast Upon the refuse of the past, Emperor ! The cries of multitudes unfed, Emperor ! The curses of the millions dead, Emperor! Will these not heap on you the scorn Of generations yet unborn? Are there no murmurs in your ear Of retribution drawing near? — The fingers of a hand that write Inscribe your doom upon the night, Emperor! VON KLUCK. The Continental “Times,” a German newspaper published in English, in its edition of Nov. 11, prints the following poem on General von Kluck. It was three weeks ago today That first we heard the Allies say, “Tomorrow morning you’ll have learned How Von Kluck’s right flank has been turned. ” Somehow the turning movement stuck; He didn’t budge, did Herr von Kluck! A few days later word from Paris Announced that two new corps would harass Von Kluck’s right wing, and rank by rank Manoeuver round and turn his flank. But these new corps had rotten luck; It’s no dead cinch to turn von Kluck. A week went by when we were glad To get a cable from Petrograd. It said von Kluck’s communication Was threatened with annihilation. But he stood pat and passed the buck; 170 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR He’s got some flank, has Herr von Kluck! And all last week our headlines whirled With the various ways Von Kluck was “hurled”: Yon Kluck’ s right flank was being pounded; Von Ivluck’s whole array'd been surrounded; The hour for turning that flank had struck! But the flank's still there, and so’s von Kluck. So take your Kaisers, and Princes and Grafts, Your iron Crosses and General Staffs, Your General Joffres and Sir John Frenches, With all their men in the shelter trenches; I’ll take for mine that game old buck Who won’t be turned — ja, Herr von Kluck! AUSTRIAN WAR LAMENT. (Or pronunciation Made Easy.) “ London Opinion. ” We Austrians cannot stand the drizzle Of Russian shrapnel at Przemvsl! The Russian hordes are in the track of Our noble men who flee to Cracow. A million Cossacks may debouch, At any moment, at Olkuze! A million more reported are At Kamionkastrumilowa ! And yet another million have, Consumed all food at Jareslaw! Ah! ev’rything they cleared — as well as The larders Jaszarokszcellas! Then down they poured like molten lava, On rural, innocent Suczawa! And now they march, with hungry screech, On harmless little Drohobycz! Curs'd be the foreign rascals, greasy, Who chased us at Tustanowice! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 171 Steel motor cars — ten guns in each car — Are rolling on toward Wieliczka! How truly awful will it be If Cossacks mangle us at Stryj ! No one may even dare to guess of The patriots who fell at Rzeszow. Of Czechs, ’tis said, they’re buried a Battalion at Csikszereda! As at the banquet of Belshazzar, The finger writes at Njiregyhaza! So, ere the sky with dawn grows streaky, Let’s fly to dear old Zaleszczyki! NOUGHTS AND CROSSES. They are a cheery lot on H. M. S., Natal, despite the hardships of the watch in the North Sea, and here is another extract from the ship’s newspaper, “The Natal News Letter,” which is published on board. The War Lord pondered — at a loss On whom to plant the Iron Cross, His breast with gauds encrusted. His eye fell on poor Belgium’s soil, Ah! That’s the place to break and spoil A nation small, that trusted. But Johnnie B. joined in the game, And met Mad Willie’s fire with flame, Which quickly him disgusted. And so, he called a Board of War, And promised crosses by the score If Britain’s Fleet was busted. But inside Kiel they’re waiting yet, And will be till those crosses get Corroded o’er and rusted. — Bun Tyng. 172 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR WILHELM LIBER ALLES. (In conversation with General von Stein, his literary Aide-de-camp.) “Fritz, I am a-weary of the victories we gain; Tell me, is it true that half-a-million men we’ve slain?” “Sire, there’s not a doubt you’ve killed a million men or so, And the children of the Fatherland have made the biggest show!” “Fritz, about my Navy, have you not some stirring news? Or do the men of Grimsby to do battle still refuse?” “Sire, your gallant sailors are just wonderful to me; They keep upon an even ‘Kiel’ while Britain’s all ‘at sea!”’ “ Fritz, it’s too absurd, of course, but what if Britain’s might Should penetrate the Baltic Sea and force us all to fight?” “Sire, would you pollute your land by shedding British gore? No! you’d take strategic steps and seek a further shore!” “Fritz, enough of horrors. Here’s my ‘Death’s-head’ uniform; Tell me, do you fancy I’ll take ‘Nancy’s’ heart by storm?” “Sire, I’ll not deceive you, nor in flattery engage; But when it comes to ‘ storming, ’ I am sure you’ll be the rage!” “Fritz, I would not weary you, but — just another one; Won’t the world admire me dressed as Attila the Hun?” (Came a voice of thunder, ’twas a British Tommy’s roar : — “Bill, they won’t take stock o’ clothes on St. Helena’s Shore!”) A. M. L. SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR 173 WHO SMASHED BILL KAISER? Who smashed Bill Kaiser? “ I, ” said the Allied Army, “I drove him’ balmy! I smashed Bill Kaiser.” Then the nations of the earth rejoic’d and all declar’d at once, That they hadn’t known such happiness for months and months and months. When they heard of the end of poor Bill Kaiser. Who saw him smashed? “I,” said the yellow press, “And on the ‘fact J I laid much stress — I saw him smashed.” And the devil sent a “wireless” saying ,“X was glad to see you slate ’im. For if he’d conquered earth he’d have sent me an ulti- matum!” When he heard of the end of poor Bill Kaiser. Who’ll toll the bell? “I,” said Jack Tar, the handy- man, “And when we’ve brought the fleet to anchor, I’m the chap to pull the rope of Bill the Blooming Swanker I’ll toll the bell.” Then Japan gave up her pastime of collecting bits of China, And the European Concert played a piece in Asia Minor, When they heard of the end of Poor Bill Kaiser. Who’ll be chief mourner? “I,” said Gunpowder Krupp, “ For by this world- wide conflict I’ve made some money, And holding Belgian coast towns is not quite all honey, I’ll be chief mourner,” Then Tommy Atkins dropped a tear, and said “Now that we’re through it, You know you made me biff you, Bill, I didn’t want to do it.” When he heard of the end of Poor Bill Kaiser. Who’ll draw his insurance money? “I,” said Lloyd George, “I’m the very chap to do it, 174 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Because I always did believe in rare, refreshing fruit. I’ll draw his insurance money.” For a “Place in the sun” Poor Bill Kaiser, you’ve been sighing And you’ll get it warm enough very soon, there’s no denying. And when the war is over, while you wonder at your blunder, Singing, not “The Watch Upon the Rhine,” but “Get Out and Get Under.” You’ll be clean off the earth, so good-bye, goodbye. RULE BRITANNIA. When, half unknown, our little world Through warlike times had darkly whirled ‘Mid noisy strife of Goth and Thun; When Vandals fierce their race had run; Venetian sailors slept in peace With martial warriors of Greece; The sunny slopes of sheltered Gaul Had seen the Romans rise and fall, And Saxon, Angle, Jute, and Dane To Norman yielded Anglia’s reign; Then out from all this varied throng Arose a nation that was strong — A nation valiant, bold, and free To rule as Mistress of the Sea, And send the message o’er the waves That Britons never would be slaves, Such was the birth of England, which, With Spirit unalloyed and rich, Remains as in the days of yore — But wedded now, from shore to shore, With sister nations who unite To manfully uphold the Right. Scotland! Of independence proud Who never yet the knee hath bowed To conquering host by sea or land Is ready yet to make a stand For Liberty; and side by side With Erin’s best and England’s pride To fight the battle to the end. And Ireland! may thy fortunes mend! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR. 175 It is enough, in days gone by, To know thy sons could do or die In Britain’s cause; and if indeed There grows of discontent the seed In Erin’s isle — pluck out the weed! Cast to the wind, with all thy woes. Until the blessed shamrock grows ’Twined with the thistle and the rose. And thus, in confident array May Britain hold the foe at bay, Maintain her glorious liberty. Her flag of Empire all unfurled, Her name the greatest in the world — The Mistress of the Sea! J. Reed, in "Glasgow Weekly Herald.” 1915. H. D. Rawnsley in “London Times.” Today how many thousands will not hear There in their changeless, timeless world of light The sad year’s solemn passing in the night, The silent coming of a happier year. For this new year, though full of woe and fear, Shall prove that Right has triumphed over Might, Shall see an end of war’s accursed blight And Peace among the nations drawing near. We cannot hear their voices, clasp their hands, The faces that we loved no more we see; But they whose names are bright on Honor’s roll In some far world shall know we reached their goal, That nobler for their deed our Empire stands, Crowned with the Will that set all Europe free. THE SOLDIER’S WIDOW. Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry; All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die.” 176 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears — “Sweet my child, I live for thee.” ROBERTS, V.C. As kinsmen in some common grief, A world of warriors bowed their crest, When he, who was of chieftains chief, Passed to his rest. To Thames the Ganges’ sacred flood Called, as it rolled from shrine to shrine, “He was of us in all but blood — This son of thine.” Full fourscore years could not subdue His martial ardor, nor the blast Of bugle find him less than true Unto the last. J. G. K. TO OUR FALLEN. Ye sleepers, who will sing you? We can but give our tears — Ye dead men, who shall bring you Fame in the coming years? Brave souls . . . but who remembers The flame that fired your embers? Deep, deep the sleep that holds you Who one time had no peers. General Joffre SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 177 Yet maybe Fame’s but seeming And praise you’d set aside, Content to go on dreaming, Yea, happy to have died If of all things you prayed for — All things your valor paid for — One prayer is not forgotten, One purchase not denied. But God grants your dear England A strength that shall not cease Till she have won for all the Earth From ruthless men release, And made supreme upon her Mercy and Truth and Honor — Is this the thing you died for? Oh, Brothers, sleep in peace! “London Times.” THE LAST MESSAGE. In a distant land, and hostile, Lies a soldier where he died; The breezes flutter a paper In the sand by the Hero’s side. It carries a word to his mother, For the man, at his dying knell, Had written, with wounds hot-burning, “Mother — we conquered- — farewell! ” — Fliegende Blaetter. FIELD MARSHAL EARL ROBERTS. Tribute to his memory by 0. S., in “ Punch. He died, as soldiers die, amid the strife, Mindful of England in his latest prayer; God, of His love, would have so fair a life Crowned with a death as fair. He might not lead the battle as of old, But, as of old, among his own he went, Breathing a faith that never once grew cold. A courage still unspent. 178 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR So was his end; and, in that hour, across The face of War a wind of silence blew, And bitterest foes paid tribute to the loss Of a great heart and true. But we who loved him, what have we to lay For sign of worship on his warrior-bier? What homage, could his lips but speak today, Would he have held most dear? Not grief, as for a life untimely reft; Not vain regret for counsel given in vain; Not pride of that high record he has left, Peerless and pure of stain; But service of our lives to keep her free, The land he served; a pledge above his grave To give her even such a gift as he, The soul of loyalty, gave. That oath we plight, as now the trumpets swell His requiem, and the men-at-arms stand mute, And through the mist the guns he loved so well Thunder a last salute! THE CITY OF PEACE. Out of the city of peace the nations passed; By the slight of a traitorous hand the die was cast; Nor can they ever return as they went out, When the guns have spoken, and silence comes at last. The ancient tables of Justice are broke in twain— Have, then, these tables the nations built in vain? No! If the blood of a million wounds must flow, With strenuous hands we shall build them up again. A greater city of peace the world will see, When the union of all the nations will set them free; When thou, oh, Justice, wilt raise thy conquering throne, And the strongest arm that rules will be ruled by thee. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 179 Out of the chaos of war the nations passed; The battle of battles was fought, and the die was cast; And many returned no more that first went out, When the guns had spoken, and silence came at last. F. M. BOBS. Rudyard Kipling’s magazine verses about Lord Roberts, which he did not reprint in book form, began after this fashion: — There’s a little, red-faced man, Which is Bobs, Rides the tallest horse he can — That is Bobs; Though it bucks, or kicks, or rears, He could sit for twenty years, With a smile round both his ears — Can’t yer, Bobs? And the stanza which gave the verses their place in the public memory ended: Though he’s little, he is wise, He’s a terror for his size, And he doesn’t advertise — Does yer, Bobs? THE VICTORIA CROSS. By Sir Edwin Arnold in “Boston Herald.” Now listen! all ye maidens laughing-eyed, And all ye English mothers, be aware! Those who shall pass before ye at noontide Your friends and champions are. The men of all the army and the fleet, The very bravest of the very brave, Linesman and lord— these fought with equal feet Firm-planted on their grave. The men who, setting light their blood and breath So they might win a victor’s haught renown, Held their steel straight against the face of Death, And frowned his frowning down. 180 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR And some who climbed the deadly glacis-side, For all that steel could stay, or savage shell; And some, whose blood upon the colors dried Tells if they bore them well; Some, too, who, gentle-hearted even in strife, Seeing their fellow or their friend go down, Saved his, at peril of their own dear life, And won the civic crown. Well done for them; and, fair isle, well for thee! While that thy bosom beareth sons like those, “The little gems set in the silver sea” Shall never fear her foes. TO AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER. (From the French of Adrienne Cambry, a French Volunteer Nurse.) Soldier, Soldier, dear Unknown, I wonder as I knit, Will you be a corporal Who will wear this mit? Will you be a captain? Tell him, Mitten, pray, That in your simple meshes I wove my heart today. Wove it warm and throbbing, O gallant soldier mine! Praying that it strengthen That strong right hand of thine. Strong to strike and swift to strike And strike the foe away, Lay on, lay on, my Soldier, Lay on, and win the day! And if my little mitten Be dyed a deeper red, Its saffron turned to crimson With blood in honor shed, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 181 The radiance of that scarlet, The glory of that stain, Would make my little work-box Seem like a sacred fane! So here’s my little mitten, Wool to keep you warm, Kisses in its meshes To keep you, dear, from harm. — “London Express” Translation. URGENT! FROM MR. ATKINS. I’ve bartered all my buttons away To the girls in the nearest village; Called me a ’ero and smiled so sweet, My word! it was downright pillage. Now I’m feelin’ a bloomin’ draught, Thanks to me youthful sins; And the only thing that can save me name Is a packet of safety pins. Mufflers ain’t what I’m pinin’ for, Socks I can do without, Folks is always a’sendin’ them, Meanin’ it well, no doubt. I’m not carin’ a tinker’s cuss, At riskin’ me blooming skin, But I’ll dashed soon be in a dead blue funk, If I don’t get a safety pin. AFTER THE BATTLE. The Christmas tree, with tinselled boughs, Casts shadows in the gloom, While wounded toys in serried ranks Pass mutely through the room. A jumping jack with broken hip Weeps o’er a headless doll, An automatic dancing bear Leans spent against the wall. 182 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR A soldier bows before his fate, One leg off at the knee, A rocking horse with dappled sides Stands hamstrung near the tree. And in his bed Sir Five-Year-Old, Who spreads distress and gloom, Dreams on of war, while wounded toys Pass mutely through the room. H. S. Haskins. AN ENGLISH MOTHER’S PRAYER— 1914 By Mrs. J. L. McKenzie. Mrs. McKenzie, the author of this poem, is the wife of a poor English farmer. It was sent in a letter to the writer’s sister, Miss Minnie Stoner, of 207 Mount- fort Street, Brookline, to whom the Boston Post is indebted for the privilege of publishing it. O Father, send Thy holy dove of comfort to our Isle. Extend thy mercy to the powers at war on land the while. Thy messenger of peace send forth to ev’ry one at sea; And solace all the breaking hearts of those who bow the knee To Thy great Throne. In mercy bend thy list’ning ear unto the orphan’s cry. Let wives and mothers feel thee near when those they love must die. Confound this enemy of ours who caused the endless strife; Who slaughtered woman, man and child; who little recked of Life That Thou hadst given. O Heavenly Father, set our land once more free from the foe; And give us comfort, joy and peace, and make us all to know That Thou art Ruler over all, the earth, the sky, the sea. Thy mercy shed upon our King, our ministers let see That those who work for love and peace, are working, too, for Thee. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 183 We beg Thy mercy for all sin; We ask Thee for Thy grace To help each one a home to win Within Thy heavenly place Of comfort, love, and peace, and mirth; A haven free from care. May all those parted souls on earth Meet one another there. BAGPIPES. By Nelson Jackson. There’s an instrument known as the bagpipes, ye ken, It hails frae auld Scotland ava; It has a terrific effect on her men, For it sends them all fleein’ awa’. When the pipes skirl the Scots into battle, ye ken, It isna wi’ valor they’re filled; “Oor national instrument’s at it again,” They say, “let’s awa’ an get killed.” Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, Iddley-iddley-aye — Which isn’t exactly a witty remark, But it’s what the pipes say when they play. The heather turns purple as soon as it hears Its chanters, and triplings, and drones; And sleeping bairns waken, and wallow in tears, And screechings, and infantile moans. It’s a music that hasn’t a key, or a clef, In a scale that’s designed to appal; But it’s greatly enjoyed by the dumb and the deaf, Because they can’t hear it at all. Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, Iddley-iddley-aye — Its, maybe, the bagpipes’ idea of a joke, But it’s what the pipes say when they play. It starts with a groan from the bottomless pit, Where all the unrighteous are slammed, And when it warms up to its work, and is fit, It wails with the shrieks of the damned. 184 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Its pitch isn’t in any recognized key, It knocks any tune on the head; It only brings comfort, betwixt you and me, To the peaceful and passively dead. Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, Iddley-iddley-aye — Which isn’t romantic I’m bound to admit, But it’s what the pipes say when they play. E — e aaaarrrrrrrrr. SAT ON A THISTLE. FROM THE BOMBAY EXAMINER. Inspired by the famous question how to pronounce “Przemysl” a corres- pondent has created the following: A dmzl who dwlt in Pryzemysl Indvrtntly sat on a thysl: Tho it certnly paind, A shrk she rstraind And contntd hrslf wth a whysl. WHY WOMEN ARE WAISTLESS IN WAR TIMES. From Paris — sartorial centre of taste — We hear that the gowns have this winter no waist, But a slim long straight line from the shoulder to hem, Is the style that in war-time distinguishes them. I need not point out the most obvious reason Why women are waistless this soldiering season, For where is the use of a waist when, confound it, There isn’t a man left to put his arm round it! But after the war, when the Tommies return. These straighBup-and-down frocks the ladies will spurn. The girls, like the gowns, will revise all their tastes, And both be in fashion with tightly squeezed waists. E. S. M. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 185 A PRAYER. George Willard Bonte. God of our fathers, intervene; Stretch forth Thy staying hands; Blood of our brothers flows between The bounds of kindred lands, And tears, oh the tears of mothers and wives, Are rusting the blades of our harvest knives; God of our fathers, grant us peace— Smother the fiery brands. Christ, Lord and Master, Prince of Peace, Vanquish the god of war. Bid the red clouds of rage surcease Where mad iron eagles soar. Silence the blasts of the hellish siege guns — Boasting the slaying of thousands of sons; Christ, Lord and Master, heal our wounds — Silence the battle’s roar. Lord of the Nations, bring us years Of peace, goodwill and toil; Lead us from out this vale of tears — Bless Thou the corpse-strewn soil. End the wild orgy of carnage and hate; Steer to safe harbors the wrecked ships of state; Lord of the Nations, hear our prayer — Quiet the World’s turmoil. From “ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON.” A people’s voice! we are a people yet. Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget, Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; Thank Llim who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it ours, And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; 0 Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep cur noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown 186 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. — Tennyson. FROM MAUD. Tennyson. Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold And love of a peace that was full of wrongs, and shames Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told; And hail once more the banner of battle unroll’d! Tho’ many a light shall darken, and many shall weep For those that are crush’d in the clash of jarring claims, Yet God’s just wrath shall be wreak’d on a giant liar; And many a darkness into the light shall leap, And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, And noble thought be freer under the sun, And the heart of a people beat with one desire. Let it dame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, And myself have awakened, as it seems, to the better mind; It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill; I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign’d. LAY OF SIR W. WALLACE. Not few nor slight his burdens are Who gives himself to stand, Steadfast and sleepless as a star, Watching his fatherland; Strong must his will be, and serene, His spirit pure and bright, His conscience vigilant and keen, His arm an arm of might. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 187 And his shall be a holier meed Than earthly lips may tell ; — Not in the end, but in the deed, Doth truest honor dwell. His land is one vast monument, Bearing the record high Of a spirit with itself content, And a name that cannot die! For this, with joyous heart, I give Fame, pleasure, love, and life; Blest for a cause so high, to live In ceaseless, hopeless strife; For this to die, with sword in hand, Oh, blessed and honored thrice! God, countrymen, and fatherland, Accept the sacrifice! M. B. Smedley. A SCOTCH LASSIE’S PRAYER FOR THE MEN AT THE FRONT. Oh, God of Mercy! guard our men; Be near them where they go, And give them courage, faith and strength; The noblest path them show. Be with them in their hour of need, Whether on land or sea, Oh! lead them with Thy mighty arm, And grant them victory. Protect the Allied Forces, Lord, And if it be Thy will, Send all our soldiers safely back, That we may have them still. Prevent more awful slaughtering, And govern Thou the fight; If Thou art with our soldiers, Lord, Then all things will come right. Those warriors whom thou’st taken home, From turbulent war to rest — We pray that they have found that peace On Jesus’ loving breast. 188 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Forgive their vengeful foemen, Lord, Though it is hard to say; Give comfort to all mourning hearts, Who’ve loved ones in the fray. Grant us Thy grace — we need it sore — And bless us every one; And if Thou call’st our dear ones home— So let Thy will be done. Delicia Chisholm (Aged 16). In Inverness “ Football Times.” COLUMBIA. Columbia! though all the world doth rage, Thou art our rock of everlasting peace; When the grim grapple of the czars shall cease, And Slav and Teuton stagger from the stage, Bespoiled sisters of a shamed age, — Thy fields shall flower and thy bounds increase In hereditaments of loving lease; Oh, let they holy purpose still engage To be a pacificator of all men, Thy ports the haven of the meek and low, Thy happy hearthstone ever radiant when The children gather at the firelight glow; COLUMBIA, rear thou each loyal son, Of Lincoln’s mold and mighty Washington. — Robert Loveman in January “Nautilus.” EUROPE. Scourge me not if in my lay Only discords harsh I pen! Hastens here the Christmas day — Shall I — can I truly say “Peace on earth, good will to men?” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 189 Mock my sorrow if you will — I can only sorrow tell. Bid the jovial wind be still! With what message dare it thrill? Peace on earth — when earth is hell! Hell of war and weary strife! Hell of hearts with anguish wrung! Is there peace for child or wife? Death, gaunt death! Life, life for life! Why to empty carols cling? Peace! Good will! When through the earth Misery on carnage feasts! Why the song of joy and mirth? What are lying carols worth? Peace on earth — good will to — beasts. — Ltjrana Sheldon in “New York Times.” WATERLOO AND ST. QUENTIN. Right high our Scottish hearts have thrilled At the tale oft told and true, blow the “gallant Greys” mid battle’s blaze Charged headlong at Waterloo. Their battle-cry from that far-off field Down the century has rung clear, And more than an echo again it sounds In proud old Scotland’s ear. By their stirrup-leathers our Highland lads Rushed with them on the foe; The kilt, the plaid, and uplifted blade In pell-mell charge did go — The sons of the North, both horse and foot, Gave voice to that well-known cry That told to the sulphurous flame-streaked field How Scotsmen do or die. Now the scene has changed; old foes are friends, And with us, side by side, Meet the German hosts that bragging boast Over Britain and France to ride, 190 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR And the “Greys” with the Highland lads again Are where they are ever found — At the front, as they were at Waterloo, On Belgium’s blood-soaked ground. Once more they have on the stage of life, In the role their fathers played, Together in fight for their country’s right The self-same wild charge made; The thundering horse and the rushing foot As one on the foeman fell. And over all as at Waterloo, Rose the slogan we know so well. Ah, Britain, home of the free and brave, Right proud thou can’st but be, That the hardy North such sons sends forth To fight and die for thee; And Scotland, thou land that gav’st them birth, Where those heroes first breath drew, Remember forever their names are bound With St. Quentin and Waterloo. W. M. COCKBURN. TO THE ENEMY, ON HIS ACHIEVEMENT. Now wanes the third moon since your conquering host Was to have laid our weakling army low, And walked through France at will. For that loud boast What have you got to show? A bomb that chipped a tower of Notre Dame, Leaving its mark like tripper’s knives that scar The haunts of beauty — that’s the best reclame You have achieved so far. Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch Was doomed to see you tread your father’s tracks — Paris, your goal, now lies a six days’ march Behind your homing backs. Pressed to the borders where you lastly passed Bulging with insolence and fat with pride, You stake your all upon a desperate cast To stem the gathering tide. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 191 Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold, Content, on his own ground, to bide his day, Out of whose toils not many feet of old Found the returning way. And still along the seas our watchers keep Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel, While that Armada, which should rake the deep, Skulks in its hole at Kiel. So stands your record — stay, I cry you grace — I wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword Has bled to death a free and gallant race Whose life you held in ward; Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings About its murdered mother’s breast — ah, there, Yes, you have done great things! Sir Owen Seaman in “Punch.” OUR BLESSED SLAIN. "Love is the fulfilling of the law.” "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.” In the fields of peace hereafter They shall shine forth as the sun; Fear not, as they passed the Master Greeted them with His “Well done!” “Brethren, love ye one another” Was the last command He gave; Greatest love is his who freely Gives his life his friends to save. Life they gave for friends and kindred, For right and truth they faced the strife; God will surely to the faithful Give His promised crown of life. Comes a day when creeds, nor faiths, Nor Ophir’s gold, nor schools’ degree Will weigh against the wondrous love Of hearts that fell thus, true and free. 192 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR In that day the Lord of Love, Who gave His life for Eden’s stain, Will bind up every broken heart, And give us back our blessed slain. We wait the day. But sorrow says — Raise ye love’s incense o’er their graves. Heart-storm and tears love’s incense is; Lord, calm us, as Thou dids’t the waves. The din of war is at our hearts, Now faints our faith, our hope would fail; But love takes up the bitter cup, And lo! it is the Holy Grail. Abide about the battle, Lord; In life, in death our soldiers stay; We, watching, listen for Thy voice — In peace, speak soon, we humbly pray. Inverness, 21st September, 1914. Margaret Colvin. IN TIME OF PERIL. Oh! Cross of Christ! our emblem be In these dread days of misery! And by Thine own illuming ray! Turn darkest night to gladsome day! Our foes dispel, our land protect, Our armies strengthen and direct! Oh! Cross of Christ! our emblem be, And lead us on to victory! Oh! Cross of Christ! upon us all Let Thy healing shadow fall! Sheltered there may we abide, Safe whatever may betide! From Christless hordes, and all who would Our faith destroy, Oh! Blessed Rood, Defend us, and our emblem be, And lead us on to victory! Helen Pearson. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 193 WAR AND THE WOMAN. The fife and drum, the banners fine, Spur on the men in warring line Until the battle’s lost or won; But out in lonely hamlets wait Those who can only guess the fate Of father, brother, lover, son. The Red Cross nurses gladly go To ease the pain of those laid low By murd’rous shell and gun and dart, But science has no surgery That for a moment can set free A waiting woman’s grief-torn heart. The soldiers in the deadly fight Soon grow accustomed to the sight Of wounded men and ghastly dead, But daily deeper grows the pain That rends a mother’s heart in twain When children cry in vain for bread. 0 God of nations, grant, we pray, That there may be some speedy way Of quieting this warring host; And meanwhile grant Thy special care To war-robed women everywhere, For they it is who suffer most. “ Christian Herald. ” ST. ANDREW’S DAY. North — where the Ice King reigns, South — ’neath the sun’s fierce blaze, West- — where they reaped the fruitful plains, East — with its olden ways, In busy street or outpost wild St. Andrew’s Day calls Scotland’s child. Calling with voice of home, Speaking the mother-tongue, Breathing across the ocean foam Songs in their childhood sung. St. Andrew’s Day to Scots hearts true Makes dear remembrance bloom anew. 194 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR One with their kin at home In the dear native land, One for the truth where’er they roam Scotia bids them stand. By road and hearth, from pleasure’s halls St. Andrew’s Day to duty calls. Now while the war-tide flows Wildly on land and sea, Scotia’s sons give trothless foes Battle to keep her free. ’Neath Southern Cross or Northern Plough St. Andrew’s Day calls Scots hearts now. Anita Stuart. YIS! Whin the war firsht began I wud grab for me paper, ’Twas not enough r’adin’ Thot I cud get thin; But now I’m not carin’ To follow the caper; Bad cess to the boonch! Shure, the war is a sin! An’ ivery wan av thim kings is a slob! They can go to the divil ! They cost me me job! Olin L. Lyman. “New York Sun,” Dec. 29th, 1914. WAR LESSONS. I wadna be surprised ava’ If plenty ere the war is won Can crack o’ Mens and Charleroi, That couldna name the ports o’ ca, Frae Gourock to Kilmun. And Marne and Aisne and Meuse they’ll track Between their towns on ilka side, That maun to avizandum tak’ Whilk Cart is White, and whilk is Black, And whaur they join the Clyde! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 195 Kilconquhar maun be pensioned noo; When, ere the papers can be read, We maun be educatit how Far fanklet names to shape our mou’ That start wi’ P-r-z! Ill win’s blaw some ane guid: and till The bairns are tell’t that a’ is by, And war-map fever starts to cuil, The easiest job in ilka schule Is teachin’ Jography! W. W. “THE SCUM.” Dedicated to those “Holy Willie” Patriots (?) who delight in referring tc our Soldiers, Volunteer or Regular, as “Scum.” It’s only the “Scum” goes out to fight, While their “betters,” safe at home, sit tight! Aye, but, though “scum,” every man is white- — White through and through; And they will prove in the days to come, ’Mid shrieking shells and the battle’s hum, That they are men, though only the scum— Men staunch and true! But need they fight, these men, if they choose? What do they stand to win or to lose? Nought — They had the same right to refuse As you, these Scum; But their love of home and all held dear Left no room in their hearts for craven fear— So off they went, with a British cheer, To tuck of drum! But stop! Let’s think: It’s a wide word “Scum:” Just let’s consider from what they come — From cottage and villa, from castle and slum, From field and farm, From shipyard and mine, from office stool, Sons of the manse, from college and school, Men bred to obey, men born to rule: All keen to arm. 196 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR From Canada’s plains they volunteer, The Indian Prince sends lance and spear, From Australia bush the cry we hear — All want to come. Not that they=ve aught to fear, ’tis true, But they wish to help to see this through, And stop this monster that’s threatening YOU!!! Well done! the Scum!! Strathaven. Jas. E. Stewart. SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT. The War Office is considering a proposal to issue to volunteers who have been rejected by the doctor a badge to be worn as evidence of patriotism. Thomas and I adored the self-same maiden: And when of late the war-blast filled the air, We cried ensemble, with loyal fervor laden, “None but the brave — that’s me — deserves the fair!” Then swift we swelled the vast recruiting crowd; And Thomas passed the doctor. 5 was ploughed. What envious rage was mine! What crimson curses I cast upon my leal (but narrow) chest! When, lo a boon! The author of these verses Received a badge (to show he’d done his best). And Phyllis honors, knowing what it means, That emblem of the “King’s Own Might-Have-Beens!” When, dove-like, peace returns, and pseans mingle With thankful prayers, and Thomas comes again, In swagger uniform, with spurs a-jingle, To claim the maiden, he shall come in vain: For she and I who (nearly) braved the strife, Shall then be man (or half a man) and wife ! “London Opinion.” Gilbert Hy. Collins. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 197 SONG OF DEATH. By Robert Burns. (Scene — a field of battle. Time— evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song. The Gaelic air, to which the poet beat out its rhythm as he wrote, signifies literally the Song of Death.) Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the broad setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships — ye dear, tender ties — Our race of existence is run. Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe, Go frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know. No terrors hast thou for the brave! Thou strik’st the poor peasant — he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name; Thou strik’st the young hero — a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame. In the field of proud honor, our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save — While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands — Oh! who would not die with the brave? ALL IS WELL. Doubt asks of Faith; “Why are we flung To meet red warfare’s fiery breath, Where groans and wounds and flaming death Revile the Hell which poets sung?” Then Faith replies: ‘Yet all is well; Through this Death-Valley you must go If you fair Paradise would know. The way to Heaven runs straight through Hell;’ The Vale of Death hath potent spell To bow the neck of hardened pride, To make a tender love and wide, Yea find a way to Heaven through Hell. To stay the tyrant greed of pelf, Life’s noble dreams to re-create, Life’s values to proportionate, To find true life in loss of self. 198 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR To overlook earth’s narrow rim, To grasp anew the guiding rod, To make us all remember God, To learn the life which is in Him. — Bishop Boyd Carpenter. THE REAL SCOT. I am a Scot frae the land o’ the Gael, As proud o’ my country, as knight o’ his mail My accent betrays me, my tartan ye hail, But shame ne’er befa’ me, I’m proud o’ the land o’ the thistle and kail, An’ your blessing beca’ me. I’m proud o’ my country, proud o’ her name, I’m proud o’ her deeds, and proud o’ her fame; No tyrant shall ever put her to shame, While Scotsmen are freemen. For freedom and love o’ his Scottish hame He’ll fight like a demon. Away with your titles of high degree, A rough, ready Scot will do well for me, A tarn on my head, a kilt on my knee, An’ far may ye ken me, With just a wee drap o’ oor hamely “bree” Wherever ye sen’ me. My dirk by my side, my trusty claymore, My slogan the cry of “Scots to the fore!” Scotch to the backbone and loyal to the core, Wha wud dare to face me? But my bones shall rot on a foreign shore Ere I shall disgrace ye! O, sons of the heather, long may ye be The flower and emblem of all Christendee, An undaunted heart, an unbending knee By birth ye inherit, A Scotsman’s motto, and right to be free Is glorious merit ! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 199 0, Scotsman! a Scotsman’s last message hear — Ne’er stain the name o’ your country so dear, Her undying glory uphold far and near, And sully it never; Your fort be the heroic, ringing cheer Of “Scotland for ever!” Long live the name and the fame o’ a Scot, Who hails frae the land o’ old John o’ Groat, His pipes ever skirl the clarion note Of vic’try and glory, His doric tell loudest how nobly he fought, In proud martial story! Milngavie. J. D. S. “Glasgow Weekly Herald.” THE NEW YEAR (1915.) Into a heritage of strife, Of trenches filled with human souls, Of bitter disregard of life, Of hate that doesn’t count the tolls, Of seas strewn thick with deadly mines And homes by grief and sorrow torn, A world where little mercy shines A bright New Year is born. Sad is the grim old year’s bequest, Bloody the record of its toil; Much of its manhood lies at rest In bitterly contested soil. Many the hopes that fired the young Of but a short twelve months ago Have heard their solemn requiem sung And vanished in a wail of woe. Here is the failure of the age That now you come to gaze upon! You find a sad and sorry page To mark the year that’s traveled on. You find a world that’s backward stepped, A world that’s faltered in the test, A weakling world that hasn’t kept Its standard up to what is best. 200 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Sad is the heritage you get, Bitter the scenes that you must view, Red runs war riot here, and yet Great is the work that waits for you. Yours is the task to end the strife. To win to peace a world forlorn, To still the blatant drum and fife And dull the cruel sword of scorn, — Edgar A. Geest in “Detroit Free Press.” A PRAYER FROM THE LINE. “The soldier in the trench doesn’t fear death; he courts it as an end to his misery.” — Herbert Corey, Boston Globe correspondent at the front. Give us, 0 God of the night — and the fight- — Give us no leaven of Heaven to own; Give us no crown, though it be in Thy light; Give us no seat, though it be at Thy throne. Give us the range of the volleying shell; Give us — beyond the last echo infernal Give us a grave that is deeper than Hell ; Give us a sleep that is dreamless, eternal. THE FAREWELL. We used to say “Well, toodle-oo; My love to all, remember.” The same old phrases, nothing new, From May to dark December. “Good-bye, be good, and mind you write,” We never tired of calling; While “See you Sunday” sounded bright And kept our tears from falling. And just as these are getting stale And worn, our need is well met; This phrase to please will never fail — “Bring back a German helmet!” Grace Golden. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 201 A REAL SCOTCH REEL. A valued Scotch contributor to the “London Times” has sent that paper a new Scotch reel, inspired by the piper of the Highlanders whom he met at Melun. It has a real reel lilt to it and is in part as follows: — Dance, since ye’re dancing, William, Dance up and doon, Set to your partners, William, We’ll play the tune! See, make a bow to Paris, Here’s Antwerp-toon; Off to the Gulf of Riga, Back to Verdun— Ay, but I’m thinking, laddie, Ye’ll use your shoon! Dance, since ye’re dancing, William, Dance up and doon, Set to your partners, William, We’ll play the tune! What! Wad ye stop the pipers? Nay, ’tis ower-soon! Dance, since you’re dancing, William, Dance, ye puir loon! Dance till you’re dizzy, William, Dance till ye swoon! Dance till ye’re dead, my laddie! We play the tune! THE WAR BUDGET. Hodge waded through the weekly news, “The income tax,” he said; “That’s nowt to me, I shallunt lose, ’Twill hit the boss instead. Lloyd Garge he be the man for I, Us poor have now’t to fear.” He paused, then gave a dismal cry; “They’re goin’ to tax my beer!” “A good thing, too!” replied his wife; “ ’Twill keep you from the pub, Swilling each evening of your life While I work at the tub!” 202 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Across the ingle nook she reached The welcome news to see, Then, in resentful clamor screeched: “Threepence a pound on tea!” Moral: To foot the bill it’s only fair That everyone should do their share, And since we all are served the same, Pay and look pleasant — that’s the game. Jessie Pope. HIS MAJESTY’S STEW. Announced with a lustier music than ever a civic feast, It goes by the name of “Dinner” four times a week at least ; Hungry and hard and happy we crowd at the bugles’ strain To dip in the smoking dixies for the same old grub again, The lunch hour means pleasant surprises for you, For us it means, briefly, His Majesty’s Stew. Wherever the sons of Britain to answer her summons flock, They dine as it were together precisely at one o’clock; Possessed by the same high ardor, inspired by the one grim wish, They gather in hungry hundreds to brouse at the same State dish; You would thrill could you hear all the bugles that blew In this isle any day for His Majesty’s Stew! It isn’t the dish most dainty for a cultured idler’s taste, And it’s best to the man most hungry, sauced with a dash of haste, You dine on a dozen courses, perfect, from silver plate, At every eve at seven as Roman gourmets ate; We only can pity your plenty, for you Don’t work every day for His Majesty’s Stew. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 203 If we grow to be old and weary, and doze in the fireside chair, And the livelier generations come chattering round us there, Exchanging their untamed fancies, their dreams of the coming days, And the past comes up like a picture, unrolled for our inward gaze, Shall we sigh for the deeds we intended to do? Not a bit! For we’ve eaten His Majesty’s Stew. W. K. H., in “Glasgow Herald.” SEVENTY BILLION DOLLARS. It is estimated the War will cost §70,000,000,000. Seventy billion is quite a sum For sending a million to Kingdom Come, A million men made null and dumb, Slaughtered like common cattle; But ye spend it, Kings and Captains, ye With the money and lives of men make free, And ye hear with a ghoulish hell-born glee The Red Death’s gurgling rattle. Seventy billion is the cost Of a so-called civilization lost, Of an age of science lightly tossed By the Kings on Moloch’s altar; Seventy billion built by toil, Sweat of men in the daily moil, Given gayly to Gods of Spoil For the sake of their rule’s Gibraltar. Seventy billion dollars spent For kindling Hell from Aix to Ghent, From Rhine to Seine, and the nations rent And the clock of progress shattered; O, Captains, Kings and all your crew That drench the lands with a ghastly dew, When the day of reckoning comes for you, What will your sway have mattered? Robertus Love in “St. Louis Republic.” 204 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR “TOMMIES” AS SEEN BY A FRENCHMAN. Dieu! but ze Tommies can fight! Zey know not ze meanings of fright. Une bombe she bang go! — Zey chant loud “Wot oh!” And proverbs mos’ strange zey recite. Zey shrink not from terreeble skenes, Zey laugh at ze deedly machines! Bravo! Zey make sharge At Germans more large, And geeve to zem beaucoup des beans — ! And wen zere goes somet’ing all wrong, Wen ver’ special ’ell comes along, Zey lift oop zeir voice And make ze glad noise Of “Are we donarted? . . . Non!” So “Vivent les bons Tommies!” I say — “Les Tommies tres braves et tres gais!” Come, toast zem some beers And geeve zem trois sheers — Ze Tommies! — ’eep, eep, eep, 'ooray! J. J. Bell, in the “Daily Chronicle.” JULES FRANCOIS. Jules Francois is poet, and gallant and gay; Jules Francois makes frocks in the Rue de la Paiz; Since the mobilization Jules Francois’s the one That sits by the breech of a galloping gun, In the team of a galloping gun! When the wheatfields of August stood white on the plain Jules Francois was ordered to go to Lorraine, Since the guns would get flirting with good Mr. Krupp And wanted Jules Francois to limber them up, To lay and to limber them up! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 205 The road it was dusty, the road it was long, But there was Jules Francois to make you a song; He sang them a song, and he fondled his gun, Though I wouldn’t translate it he sang it Al; His battery thought it Al! The morning was fresh and the morning was cool When they stopped in an orchard two miles out of Toul, And the grey muzzles spat through the grey muzzles’ smoke, And there was Jules Francois to make you a joke, To crack his idea of a joke: — “The road to our Paris ’tis hard as can be; The road to that London he halts at the sea; So, vcis-tu, mon gars? ’tis as certain as sin This wisdom that chooses the road to Berlin!” So they follow the road to Berlin. “Punch.” PRZEMYSL. The trumpets blare in the quivering air As with bated breath waits Przemysl For the dread onslaught of war’s juggernaut At the point of the awful syzygy. The guns will roar at the walls before The invested city of Przemysl, While the imps of hell add their horrible yell To their impious cachinnaticns. And should anyone read this wartime screed, And object to its rhymes for Przemysl, Let him go his way and have his say, Though he choose to rhyme it with Oshkosh. “New York Sun.” 206 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR WHAT SHALL WE DO? A war chant in a minor key respectfully dedicated to Lord Charles Beres- ford, Mr. Horatio Bottomley, Mr. Alfred Hunnable, and other patriot orators who are now busy with peace terms. What shall we do with the Kaiser, the man who caused the war? What shall we do with his Royal Nibs to settle a long, long score? We shall give short shrift to the Kaiser, he never shall rule again; We’ll pack him away to the far South Seas, besmirched with the brand of Cain. We’ll make an end of his warlike pride, and his mailed fist accurst- — That’s what we’ll do with the Kaiser— But We have to catch him first. What shall we do to Germany when we have won b Berlin? What shall we do to the modern Huns to punish them for their sin? Oh, Holstein we’ll give to Denmark, and France shall have Lorraine, We’ll cut a slice from here and there they’ll not get back again. They’d set to work and fight us if we gave them half a chance, So we’ll cut ’em into rags — Just now Our Army is in France! MATRl DOLOROSAE. W. M. L. Hutchinson in “London Spectator.” They bore a warrior home upon his shield To hollow Lacedaemon, long ago; They told how, lion-like, he charged the foe, And fell the hero of a hard-won field. Then all his house made moan, but tearlessly His mother watched beside her first born dead; And when they bade her weep for him she said — “Sparta has many a worthier son than he.” SONGS OF THE GEE AT WOELD WAB 207 A soul as steadfast looks from your wan face, 0 English Mother, now like her bereft, Yet not, like her, denied a hope divine, You too have known the sovereign pride of race; You that have said, “Though I be desolate left, Take, England, this my son, for he is thine.” THE SEARCH LIGHTS ON THE MERSEY. From “Punch” A long, lean bar of silver spans The ebon-rippled water-way, And like a lost moon’s errant ray Strikes on the passing caravans. Ghost ships that from the desert seas Loom silent through the steady beams, Pale phantoms of elusive dreams Cargoed with ancient memories. Through the long night, across the cool, Black waters, to their shrouded berth, Bearing the treasures of the earth, Glide the fair ships to Liverpool. THE ARMY OF THE DEAD. Baeey Pain, in “Westminster Gazette.” I dreamed that overhead I saw in twilight grey The Army of the Dead Marching upon its way, So still and passionless, With faces so serene, That scarcely could one guess Such men in war had been. No mark of hurt they bore, Nor smoke, nor bloody stain; Nor suffered any more Famine, fatigue, or pain; 208 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Nor any lust of hate Now lingered in their eyes— Who have fulfilled their fate, Have lost all enmities. A new and greater pride So quenched the pride of race That foes marched side by side Who once fought face to face. That ghostly army’s plan Knows but one race, one rod — All nations there are Man, And the one King is God. No longer on their ears The bugle’s summons falls; Beyond these tangled spheres The Archangel’s trumpet calls; And by that trumpet led Far up the exalted sky The Army of the Dead Goes by, and still goes by — Look upward, standing mute: Salute ! THE VIGIL. Henry Newbolt, in “London Times.” England: where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead, Watch beside thine arms tonight, Pray that God defend the right. Think that when tomorrow comes War shall claim command of all Thou must hear the roll of drums, Thou must hear the trumpet’s call. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 209 Now before they silence ruth, Commune with the voice of truth; England! on thy knees tonight Pray that God defend the right. Single-hearted, unafraid, Hither all thy heroes came, On this altar’s steps were laid Gordon’s life and Outram’s fame. England! if thy will be yet By their great example set, Here beside thine arms tonight Pray that God defend the right. So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful hear the trumpet’s call. Then let Memory tell thy heart: “England! what thou were thou art!” Gird thee with thine ancient might, Forth, and God defend the Right! THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. By Thomas Campbell. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array. Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; ’Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In morning life’s march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 210 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. “Stay, stay with us!- — rest! — thou art weary and worn!” And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE MARRIED MAN. Reservist of the Line — by Rudyard Kipling in “The Five Nations.” The batchelor ’e fights for one As joyful as can be; But the married man don’t call it fun, Because ’e fights for three — For Fm an’ ’Er an’ It (An ’Two an’ One makes Three) ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’onre to ’is tea! ********* The bachelor ’e fights ’is fight An’ stretches out an’ snores; But the married man sits up all night — For ’e don’t like out o’ doors: ’E’ll strain an’ listen an’ peer An’ give the first alarm — For the sake o’ the breathin’ ’e’s used to ’ear An’ the ’ead on the thick of ’is arm. The bachelor may risk ’is ’ide To ’elp you when you’re downed; But the married man will wait beside Till the ambulance comes around. ’E’ll take your ’ome address An’ all you’ve time to say, Or if ’e sees there’s ’ope, ’e’ll press Your art’ry ’alf the day — SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 211 Yes, It ’an ’Er an’ ’Im, Which often makes me think The married man must sink or swim An’ — ’e can’t afford to sink! Oh, ’Im and ’It an’ ’Er Since Adam an’ Eve began, So I’d rather fight with the bachelor An’ be nursed by the married man! TO OUR DEAD. By Edmund Gosse in “London Times.” The flame of Summer droops and fades and closes, While Autumn thins the embers of the copse, And even more the violent life of roses Grows keener as the roseate foliage drops; 0, strong young hearts within whose veins was leaping, Love like a fount, hate like a dart shot high, My heart o’er yours, its dolorous vigil keeping, Is pierced with sorrow, while in joy you die! Your ashes o’er the flats of France are scattered, But hold a fire more hot than flesh of ours; The stainless flag that flutters, frayed and tattered, Shall wave and wave like Spring’s immortal flowers. You die, but in your death life glows intenser, You shall not know the shame of growing old; In endless joy you wave the holy censer. And blow the trumpet tho’ your lips are cold. Life was to us a mist of intimations; Death is a flash that shows us where we trod; You, falling nobly for the righteous nations, Reveal the unknown, the unhoped-for face of God. After long toil, your labors shall not perish; Through grateful generations yet to come Your ardent gesture, dying. Love shall cherish, And like a beacon you shall guide us home. 212 SONGS OF THE GEEAT WORLD WAR THE BRIDE. Katherine Tynan in the “Windsor.” Weave me no wreath of orange-blossom, No bridal white shall me adorn; I wear a red rose in my bosom, Tomorrow I shall wear the thorn. Bring me no gauds to deck my beauty, Put by the jewels and the lace; My love to honor and to duty Was plighted ere he saw my face. I hear his impatient charger neighing, I hear the trumpets blow fanfare! His comrades ride, as to a Maying, Jesting and splendid to the war. Why is my lady-mother weeping? Why is my father grieved sore? Oh, love, God have you in His keeping, The day you leave your true-love’s door. Why should I weep? I am his for ever, Whose name and ring I wear with pride; Nor earth nor heaven shall us dissever, Oh, love, one kiss before you ride! Go glad and gay to meet the foeman , I love you to my latest breath; Oh, love, there is no happier woman! See, I am smiling! Love — till death! THE DROWNED SAILOR. By Maurice Hewlett, in “London Daily Chronicle.” Last night I saw my true love stand All shadowy by my bed. He had my locket in his hand; I knew that he was dead. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 213 “Sweetheart, why stand you there so fast, Why stand you there so grave?” “I think” (said he) “this hour’s the last That you and I shall have.” “You gave me this from your fair breast, It’s never left me yet; But now it dares not seek the nest Because it is so wet.” “The cold gray sea has covered it, Deep in the sand it lies, While over me the long weeds flit, And veil my staring eyes.” “And there are German sailors laid Beside me in the deep. We have no need for gun or blade United in our sleep.” “Cold is the bed that I lie on, And deep beneath the swell, No voice is left to make my moan, Or bid my love farewell.” Now I am widow that was wife, Would God that they could prove What law should rule without the strife That’s robbed me of my love. AFTERMATH By B. in “London Times.” Yes, he is gone, there is the message, see! Slain by a Prussian bullet as he led The men that loved him, dying, cheered them on — My son — my eldest son. So be it, God! This is no time for tears — no time to mourn. No time for sombre draperies of woe. Let the aggressor weep! for they have sinned The sin of Satan — Lust of power and pride — Mean envy of their neighbor’s weal — a plot Hatched amid glozing smiles and prate of peace. Through the false years — until the Day — the Day When all this kneeling at the Devil’s feet Should win the world — Ay, let them weep — ! 214 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR But we With eyes undimmed march on — our mourning robes Bejewelled with the deeds of those that die, Lustre on lustre — till no sable patch Peeps through their brilliance. In the years to come When we have done our work and God’s own peace, The Peace of Justice, Mercy, Righteousness, Like the still radiance of a summer’s dawn, With tranquil glory floods a troubled world — Why, then perhaps in the old hall at home, Where 1 once dreamed my eldest-born should stand The master, as I stand the master now, Our eyes, my wife, shall meet, and gleam, and mark Niched on the walls in sanctity of pride, Hal’s sword, Dick’s medal, and the cross He won Yet never wore — That is the time for tears — Drawn from a well of love deep down — deep down, Deep as the mystery of immortal souls — ■ That is the time for tears — Not now — Not now! A NATION’S PRAYER. Great God, supreme, Whose sovereign power, And guiding hand our lives confess, On Whom we call in danger’s hour, In every season of distress; Help us, though weak in heart and will, Thee to adore, and bless us still. Our selfish thoughts, our foolish pride, Our want of truth and inward grace, From Thy pure eyes we may not hide; Lord, set them not before Thy face. Nor let Thine arm in wrath fulfil Some hurtful aim, but bless us still. In this dark hour we look to Thee, Our fathers’ God, we ask Thine aid: Thy smile is light and liberty; By Thy strong word the earth was made: No foe shall daunt, no fear shall chill, If Thou art nigh to bless us still. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD AVAR 215 Oh, bless us — not that we are good, Or that we more than others are: Our waywardness is like a flood Which bears us oft from Thee afar; Lord, let not this affect us ill, But in Thy mercy bless us still. “Stepps.” J. I. W. TO EMILE VERHAEREN. How lonely walked thy Muse among the nations! Fluting no false, light lays in Fancy’s bower — But finding in Man’s suffering, toil, and patience Magic and sombre power. Thine were the eyes that saw the old saints tremble In their husht shrines, as trains went thundering by; Thy voice proclaimed, thy heart would not dissemble The portents of the sky. They are shattered now — these pictures quaint and holy! The bells are down: the altar lights are dark: That old tired slave, the windmill, signals slowly The gunner to his mark. And all the nations sit in doubt and sorrow: Red flares the sunset of the world they know — And no man knoweth plainly of the morrow Behind the night’s black woe. One migrant thought came, near my heart to settle: Fledged from thy song, it journeyed through the Amid War’s furnace roars — Yet, Life’s enduring metal Is forged there — not destroyed! A. S. F. TO WHAT BASE USES? The German?, being short of bu’lets, have commandeered the whole of the plates of lead and zinc used in the production of music scores. When Music raised her heavenly head, Her parents could have had no notion Her throat Avould pour out notes of lead To spur the Avicked into motion. 216 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR For Blister Bill she nothing cared — His face so wild, his foot so cloven — She never dreamed he could have dared To bay the British with Beethoven. Poor Wagner would his voice lift up Could he observe how all the muses Have been annexed by Mr. Krupp, As fodder for the mitrailleuses. To think the gentle songs of Spring — A never-failing cheery tonic— The Huns into the cauldron fling To make their cannon Mendelssohnic! O shades of Gluck (not “One o’Clock”), Iphigenia, down at Tauris, Is shattered in a molten shock And now she really knows what war is. Yet Blister Bill, with swank a lot, And various glittering togs arrayed in, Puts Schubert in the melting pot, And prays in aid the noble Haydn. While, all the while, the truckler tries To seem a saint in Uncle Sam’s sight, But Sam has got no taste for lies, They’re much too feeble — by a Brahms’ sight Rare treasures vanish in the flames — Our Mozart sweet, our mighty Handel — To feed the mad adventurer’s games, To gratify the hungry vandal. But, Bill, when the last shot you’ve had From some sad, wretched, starving corps, you Must not forget our guns, my lad, Have striking music waiting for you. “London Opinion.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 217 1915 H. D. Rawnsley in “ London Times. ” Today how many thousands will not hear There in their changeless, timeless world of light The sad year’s solemn passing in the night, The silent coming of a happier year. For this new year, though full of woe and fear, Shall prove that Right has triumphed over Might, Shall see an end of war’s accursed blight And Peace among the nations drawing near. We cannot hear their voices, clasp their hands, The faces that we loved no more we see; But they whose names are bright on Honor’s roll In some far world shall know we reached their goal, That nobler for their deed our Empire stands, Crowned with the Will that set all Europe free. THE SWORDS OF INDIA Harold Begbie in “London Chronicle.” Dedicated to His Highness the Maharajah of Mysore. They said, the gentle Germans said: “When we, the mighty host, attack This England whom the nations dread, India will strike her in the back! ” But you another tale unfold; You offer treasure, and your lords Cry to their Emperor, “Sire, behold Our swords, our myriad swords!” They said, the jealous Germans sa’d: “This bloated England, like a beast, Too long her coward soul has fed At the rich manger of the East!” But you who scorn the tyrant’s lash, Our Peace the shield of all your hordes, Under the flag of England flash Your swords, your warrior swords! 218 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR They said, the jeering Germans said: “India, who waits, will not be loth — ” Her conscripts’ blood be on the head Of them who lied about us both! India, with us you live and breathe, Our steadfast will with yours accords; God knows our pride when you unsheathe Your swords, your faithful swords! MOTHERS OF MEN By George Cabot Lodge From “ The Song of the Wave, ” Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1898. By permission of the publishers. Weep, mothers of men! Out of pain ye have peopled the earth, And the pain of life is the pain of birth, With its sordid lust and its evil mirth, And yet ye have borne and must bear again — Weep, mothers of men! Weep, mothers of men! The toil of the body and ache of brain, The sweat of life at the end proves vain; Your children leave you to dare the strain. Your children return to you alien — Weep, mothers of men! Weep, mothers of men! The hands of the world are strong to take The lives ye bear for the world’s sole sake, To try their souls till they bend or break; Your children vanish from out your ken — Weep, mothers of men! Weep, mothers of men! For a woman’s lips, for the lust of gold, Your children’s honor is bought and sold, Your children die in the dark and cold, Your children never shall come again — Weep, mothers of men. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 219 Weep, mothers of men! The human heart is the proper sheath For the dagger of life; ye have blown the breath Of life in the world and it ends in death; Your children live and die, and then? — Weep, mothers of men! Weep, mothers of men! Weep and pray to the God whose scorn Has given ye life that men may be born, Hearts to suffer and eyes to mourn, For the crown of love is a crown of thorn, And your children return to you alien, Perish and never return again — Weep, mothers of men! IT’S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY. By Jack Judge and Harry Williams. Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day, As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square, Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there : — It’s a long way to Tipperary, It’s a long way to go; It’s a long way to Tipperary, To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Fareweh Leicester Square, It’s a long way to Tipperary, But my heart’s right there. Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly 0! Saying, “Should you not receive it, write and let me know! “If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear,” said he, “Remember, it’s the pen that’s bad, don’t lay the blame on me.” Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy 0 ! Saying, “Mike Maloney wants to marry me and so Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you’ll be to blame, “For love has fairly drove me silly — hoping you’re the same!” 220 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE INGRATES. By Touchstone, in “ The London Daily Mail. ” The atest German announcement is that liberty is to be brought to the oppressed subjects of the British empire. The poor Australian groans aloud Beneath the heavy British yoke; Upon his shoulders, meekly bowed, There falls the brutal driver’s stroke. Surely he turns his longing eyes Across the trackless ocean wave To where the German standard flies, The Emblem of the free and brave! The tired Canadian drags his chain That fetters him to England’s strand; He feels his very life-blood drain, Sucked by the vampire motherland. Each crushed and tortured Indian chief Hails the deliverance now begun, And greets with undisguised relief The advent of the gentle Hun. Nay, but our servile Empire’s might Against her would-be friend is furled; These wretched slaves arise to fight The liberator of the world. Filled with a wild ungrateful fire Her sons flock home by every sea: The things to which their souls aspire Were never made in Germany! YOUR DEAR OLD DAD WAS IRISH. William Hargreaves and Laurence Wright. The troop ship was waiting, as friends said “ Good-bye,” The boys were departing midst many a sigh, A young Irish soldier, erect in his place Was eager to fight for the cause of his race. An old Chelsea pensioner crept to his side, His form bent and feeble, his face flushed with pride, Murmured, “My lad, when you’re facing the foe, Remember your breeding and let them all know:” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 221 Take this bunch of shamrock and guard it with pride, The rose of Old England keep them side by side, If anyone asks what their meaning can be, Just say they’re an emblem of sweet liberty. The bugle then sounded, the partings were o’er, And how those boys fought on that far distant shore! An old soldier thought, as of vict’ry he read, Of the Shamrock, the rose, and the words he had said. Chorus : “Your dear old Dad was Irish, Your Mother came from Wales, Your Grandad was a Scotchman, From the bonnie Hieland dales. So remember when you’re fighting, Where foreign bullets whiz, You’ve got the blood in you to keep Old England where she is!” THE KILT AND BONNET BLUE. My harp I’ll strike for Scotia brave, Fair Freedom’s loved abode; Proud are her sons, the foot of slaves Their heather never trod; Staunch loyalty, whate’er betide, Their manly breasts imbue! They love the bonnie tartan plaid, The kilt and bonnet blue. The kilt and bonnet blue, hurrah! The kilt and bonnet blue, They love the bonnie tartan plaid, The kilt and bonnet blue. There are across the stormy sea More genial climes — what then? Their maids are not so fair and free, Nor yet as bold their men; For Scotia’s sons both far and wide, High honor’s path pursue, Robed in the bonnie tartan plaid. The kilt and bonnet blue. 222 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Our liberty was dearly bought — Enthralling chains we spurn! Remember how our fathers fought And bled on Bannockburn! A fame-wreath, ever to abide, They bound — the gallant few! — ’Round Freedom’s brow, twined with the plaid, The kilt and bonnet blue. If foemen, then, cross o’er the main, And land upon our shore, They’ll come to be forced back again, Or fall in battle’s roar; We’ll belt the claymores to our sides, That won famed Waterloo, And conquer in our tartan plaids, The kilt and bonnet blue. Alex. Logan. SOLDIERS OF THE GUARD. A British National Song. The following verses are from a well-known writer for the Guard’s Band. Wake! Britain! from your sleeping, For Queen and country wake! Your countrymen are weeping, Your honor is at stake, Hark! to the roar and the rattle That echo far away; Gird up your loins for battle, Or stay at home and pray. For the men who are marching to the front, For the women who are weeping all bereft, For the boys who bear the battle and the brunt, For the broken-hearted girls that they have left, For the honor, and the valor, tho’ the duty may be hard, For the glory of the soldiers of the Guard! Speed, Britain, they are crying For help from motherland; Avenge the dead and dying Left on the desert sand. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 223 Rush to the front and brave it, Pluck out the rebel’s sting; Unfurl the flag and wave it. That the British may sing For the men are marching to the front, etc. Shout, Britain, and above it Ring out the traitor’s knell; Find out the spot, and love it, Where gallant Gordon fell! March! for the bands are playing; Leave to the loved a tear. Farewell! the anchor’s weighing, But let the people cheer. For the men are marching to the front, etc. BEFORE AND AFTER. Before the battle. Gay standards waving, Drums loudly beating, bugles blowing shrill; Swords brightly gleaming, rifles borne lightly, Big cannon drawn over meadow and hill; Steeds proudly prancing, soldiers advancing, Eager to cope with the terrible foe; Steadily marching, with hearts keenly burning, And eyes that with valor and rapture full glow. After the battle. Torn standards lying, Bugle and drum most mournfully still; Bloodly swords broken, full many dread token Of the combat’s dire fury, waged with fierce will. Rifles wide scattered, guns bruised and battered, Soldiers laid bleeding in hundreds and more; Groans of the wounded, moans of the dying, The field strewn with dead and dyed deep with the THE AULD FLAG. O’ the auld flag, the grand auld flag, long may it proud- ly wave, The birthricht o’ a freeborn grace, the glory o’ the brave; 224 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The wave-girt cradle o’ thy fame gave birth to Liberty, And throned her ’mid thy mountain peaks, oh! island of the sea. The echoes o’ a thousand years recount thy deeds o’ fame; Oppression’s ruthless hand is stayed at thy time-hon- ored name ; The auld flag, the bauld flag, tho’ war’s clouds roon thee blaw, Yet like thy mountains through their mist thou’lt rise aboon them a’. Let Aytoun’s flowing pages speak thy deeds across the sea Or sangs whase doric numbers sing o’ loves in Ger- manie : The Fleur de Lis, the "Iron Crown,” entwined thy wreaths lang syne. While deathless glory gilds thy roll of victories on the brine. The auld flag, the dear auld flag, grand memories round thee draw, Since spread o’er Cameron’s gallant breast at hard- won Quatre-Bras; Or wreathed on noble Nelson’s form the heritage of fame ! — Thy heroes still uphold unstained the glories of thy name. The auld flag, the dear auld flag, as years roll fast awa’, Still may thy talismanic power be felt o’er earth’s great ba’; While wreathed around the dear auld flag the olive leaves shall twine, And victories greater still than war shall round its glories shine. Aberdeen “Free Press.” W. A. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 225 “CALL IT A DRAW.” A Lancashire Ode to the Kaiser. (By T. Clayton.) According to the Press the German Emperor is finding it difficult to become the master of Europe. It is stated that feelers for peace have been sent out, and that the Kaiser would like “to call it a draw.” Written in football phraseology. Mak’ it “a draw,” Mister Kayser! By gum bud yo’an getten a cheek; Pray whod dun yo’ tali’ us for, mister, A teeom us is fagged eawt an’ weak? My word, if yo’ do yo’re mistaken, For eawr chaps are eawt for a win; An’ th’ match weyn’t be drawn or abandoned Till they’ve marched throo th’ streets o’ Berlin. A draw, Mister Kayser — nowe, nowe, mon! As lung as eawr chaps keep their feet It’s a feyght to a finish or lunger, It’s a win, or a staggerin’ defeat. Eawr teeom, as yo’ know, is a scratched ’un; Wey’ve poiked um up here an’ theere; Bud yo’ll find every chap as wey’ve signed on Knows th’ best way for th’ goalposts to steer. Yo’ve prayed hard for th’ “Day,” an’ yo’am gettin it; Yo’ve toasted th’ “Day” an’ it’s here; An’ yo’ll find when th’ game’s or wi’ an’ finished As th’ map o’ yore country ull look queer. Wey’re playin’ yo’ th’ match as yo’an axed for, An’ th’ winners are yore teeom or mine, An’ to caw id a “draw” fairly caps ma — For th’ whistle ’snoan blowed fer hawf-time. Yo’ punched off afore wey were ready, Yore forrods kept runnin’ offside; Wey appealed when yo’ punched boa’ i’ Belgium For foul play wey conna abide. Yo’ managed to punch boa’ to Paris, An’ no deawt yo’ thowt as yo’d scoore; Bud yo’ fun’ eawt eawr backs quite ready An’ fotched yore forrods to th’ floor. 226 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR Neaw wey’re dribblin’ an’ heydin’ an’ screwin’ An’ drivin’ yo’ back, bit by bit, An’ when eawr teeom’s getten their stride, mon, Fro’ midfield yo’ll soon hev to flit. Mak’ it a “draw”! Mon, tha’rt jokin’; Ax th’ “Tommies” an’ th’ “Jacks” at’s afloat, An’ they’ll tell yo’ they’ll nod budge an inch, mon, Or gooa back on th’ papper we wrote. Soa buck up an’ feyght to a finish, Pack th’ goal, if yo’ con, i’ Berlin; Bud yo’ll find when yo’ve done a’ yo’ con do, Owd England’s a “ten to one” win. Ged up fro’ yore knees, Mister Kayser, Doan’t cant abeawt culture an’ God; Wey’ve a penalty kick up agen yo’ For th’ wimin yo’ve put under th’ sod. Wey’ve another for th’ childre yo tramped on, An’ one for Termonde an’ Louvain, Theer’s another for th’ foul agen Belgium; An’ aw’ll bet yo’ wey shan’t shoot i’ vain. An’ then, when th’ gam’s ore wi’ an’ finished Yo’ll hev a’ eawr exes to pay; An’ aw’ll bet when yo’re axed to pay th’ bill, mon, Yo’ll wish yo’d ne’er toasted “th’ Day.” FROM THE FRONT. The army has suffered an awful rout In the terrible battle of (name left out). But the enemy’s hordes have been defeated On the banks of the River (name deleted.) The Austrians, under General Dank, Attacked the Russians at (name left blank). On the road near (cut) they fled in fear, But they turned and fought at (blue pencilled here). Our men have had but little rest Since the fighting began at (name suppressed), But a funny thing happened — we had to laugh — When (word gone) we (missing paragraph). If the Censor destroys this letter, well, I wish the Censor would go to (the rest of the page was torn off by the Censor.) “ Seattle Sun. ” SONGS OF THE GEEAT WOULD WAE 227 TO THE SCHOOL AT WAR. We don't forget — while in this dark December We sit in schoolrooms that you know so well And hear the sounds that you so well remember — The clock, the hurrying feet, the chapel bell; Others are sitting in the seats you sat in; There’s nothing else seems altered here — and yet Through all of it, the same old Greek and Latin, You know we don’t forget. We don’t forget you — in the wintry weather You man the trench or tramp the frozen snow; We play the games we used to play together In days of peace that seem so long ago ; But through it all. the shouting and the cheering, Those other hosts in graver conflict met, Those other sadder sounds your ears are hearing Be sure we don’t forget. And you, our brothers, who for all our praying, To this dear school of ours come back no more, Who lie our country’s debt of honor paying — And not m vain — upon the Belgian shore; Till that great day when at the Throne in Heaven The books are opened and the judgment set, Your lives for honor and for England given The School will not forget. C. A. C., in “London Times.” THOSE AWFUL NAMES. Poet Laureate’s Jingle Applies as it Did a Century Ago. In the Napoleonic wars, 100 years ago, though the English and the Russians were joined in attack on the Corsican, the quizzical view of Russian military meth- ods prevailed in the British Islands. Southey, poet laureate, expressed it in his lines on the march to Mos- cow: There was Tormazow and Jemalow; And all the others that end in “ow”; Milarodovotch and Jaladovitch, And all others that end in “itch” Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, 228 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR And all the others that end in “offsky” And Platoff, he played them off; And Shouvaloff, he shovelled ’em off; And Markoff, he marked ’em off; And Krosnoff, he crossed ’em off; And Touchoff, he touched ’em off; And Boroskoff, he bored ’em off ; And Parenoff, he pared ’em off; And Kutusoff, he cut ’em off; And Worronzoff, he worried ’em off; And Doctoroff, he doctored ’em off; And Rodionoff, he flogged ’em off; And, last of all, an admiral came, A terrible man with a terrible name, A name which you all know by sight very well. But which no one can speak and no one can spell. What Russia did to the great Napoleon in her own territory she may seek to do to the Kaiser in his eastern provinces. A new terror would be lent to war if these names were photographed to be thundered out by talk- ing machines in the advance line. — Stray Stories. THE NEW NEUTRALITY. George Washington’s birthday this year Had better in silence be passed; He walloped our cousins And licked them by dozens — The day might offend them at last. The Fourth of July should be skipped, The great Declaration ignored; The date is so recent It wouldn’t be decent To hint how America scored. The Star Spangled Banner should hush, ’Tis really a dangerous screech; For those words were written While fighting Great Britain, And might make a terrible breach. McLandburgh Wilson In “New York Sun,” Jan. 31, 1915. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 229 A GERMAN REMINDER. When you call England “Mistress of the Seas” I trust you will not fail to note that I With Zeppelins navigate the bounding breeze, So why not call me “Master of the Sky”? C. E. E., in “New York Sun” Jan. 31, 1915. “FROM THE NEUTRAL NATIONS.” The attitude which she believes the United States is inclined to take is ad- mirably paraphrased by London’s “Punch” in a poem called “From the Neu- tral Nations.” “The recent boom in the export of copper,” says “Punch,” “from America to the neutral nations is very significant. If the enemy’s supplies of this article — an esssential in the manufacture of cartridges, etc. — were cut off, the war would come to a speedy end. The figures for September and October, 1914, show an increase of nearly 400 per cent over the corresponding figures for 1913.” Then comes the poem : O, Britain, guardian of the seas, Whose gallant ships (may Heaven speed ’em) Defend the wide world’s liberties Against the common foe of Freedom; Doubt not where our true feelings lie; We would not have you come a cropper, Although it suits us to supply That common foe with copper. Dear Land of Hope, in which we trust, Beneath whose ample wings we snuggle, Safe from the Kaiser’s culture-lust And free to live and smile — and smuggle; Devoted to the peaceful arts, We keep our conduct strictly proper, Yet all the time you have our hearts (And Germany our copper). Although the crown is theirs alone Who crush the tyrant’s bold ambitions, Peace hath her profits, all her own, Derived from contraband munitions; And you who fight for Freedom’s aims Will surely shrink to put a stopper Upon our bagmen’s righteous claims And burst the boom in copper. 230 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Once more we swear our hearts are true And, like the tar’s connubial token, “It doesn’t matter what we do” If we but keep that pledge unbroken; So while we pray for Prussia’s fall, And look to your stout arm to whop her, We mean to answer every call She makes on us for copper. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. For some reason or another, there has been a great dearth of popular marching songs among the British Soldiers. “ Tipperary, ” the latest and best, has been the most popular, but many Britishers regret that the fine old patriotic songs of long ago are not revived at present. Among those one of the finest is “The girl I left behind me.” It is said the words were written about 1790, and the Oxfordshire Militia marched to the Downs above Brighton during the Napoleonic panic of 1793 to this song which originally was known as “Brighton Camp.” There is also an Irish version of the song. I’m lonesome since I crossed the hill, And o’er the moor and valley, Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill Since parting with my Sally; I seek no more the fine or gay, For each does but remind me How swiftly passed the hours away With the girl I’ve left behind me. Oh, ne’er shall I forget the night, The stars were blight, above me, And gently lent their silv’ry light When first she vowed to love me; But now I’m bound to Brighton Camp, Kind Heaven then pray guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl ’Ive left behind me. Her golden hair in ringlets fair, Her eyes like diamonds shining, Her slender waist, with carriage chaste, May leave the swan repining. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 231 Ye Gods above! oh, hear my pray’r, To my beauteous fair to bind me And send me safely back again To the girl I’ve left behind me. The bee shall honey taste no more, The dove become a ranger, The falling waters cease to roar, Ere I shall seek to change her. The vows we registered above Shall ever cheer and bind me In constancy to her I love — The girl I’ve left behind me. “THE KILTIES IN THE CRIMEA.” An Old Song Recalled. The late exploit of the London Scottish calls to mind, remarks the “ Manchester Guardian” a robust old song, “The Kilties in the Crimea,” which might well be re- vived with a little alteration at the present day. It was written in 1856 by John Lorimer, of Paisley, in praise of the valor of the kilted Scottish regiments, and was for many years a popular street song all over Scot- land. The first verse ran: The Kilties are the lads for me, They’re aye the foremost in a spree, And when they’re in they’ll no’ come oot Tho’ a’ the warld should turn aboot. They’re no’ the lads will run awa’, But fecht while they ha’e breath to draw; Just tell them whaur they’ll meet the foe, And shouther to shouther awa’ they go! Chorus : Hurrah for a’ the Kiltie lads, Wi’ tartan plaids and white cockades, Just set them doun before the foe, And shouther to shouther awa’ they go’ 232 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Though there is no mention of a piper leading the Kil- ties’ onslaught in Belgium (the Crimean song declares that “when the bagpipes ga’e a blaw the Turkies fainted clean awa’”), history seems to have repeated itself when — wi’ a wild unearthly cry Up rushed the Kilties to the foe And felled a man at every blow! To the Russian General’s inquiry, “Does any mortal ken whether they’re wild beasts or men?” Colin Campbell, (so the veracious ballad said, — replied that the kilted lads were just “our horsemen’s wives in Sun- day claes” — a more respectable description than their present German nickname — “the ladies from Hell”! The lively Scottish minor tune of the song is preserved in the late Robert Ford’s “Vagabond Songs of Scot- land.” GOES A LONG WAY. The Kaiser is said to have stated in a “Royal and Imperial Command,” that his army should exterminate first the treacherous English by annihilating General French’s “Contemptible little army.” It has since been reported in the Press that the Kaiser never uttered those famous words, but whether he did or not he has probably realized the truth of the lines that Our Army may be small, But we’ve shown before to-day That a little British Army, Goes a damned long way. — “ Glasgow News.” THE REDEMPTION OF EUROPE. Alfred Noyes „ . . donee templa refeceris . Under which banner? It was night Beyond all nights that ever were. The Cross was broken. Blood-stained might Moved like a tiger from its lair; And all that heaven had died to quell Awoke, and mingle earth with hell. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 233 For Europe, if it held a creed, Held it through custom, not through faith. Chaos returned, in dream and deed. Right was a legend; Love— a wraith; And That from which the world began Was less than even the best in man. God, in the image of a Snake Dethroned that dream, too fond, too blind, The man-shaped God whose heart could break, Live, die, and triumph with mankind. A Super-snake, a Juggernaut, Dethroned the highest of human thought. The lists were set. The eternal foe. Within us as without grew strong, By many a super-subtle blow Blurring the lines of right and wrong In Art and Thought, till nought seemed true But that soul-slaughtering cry of New! New wreckage of the shrines we made Thro’ centuries of forgotten tears We knew not where their scorn had laid Our Master. Twice a thousand years Had dulled the uncapricious Sun. Manifold worlds obscured the One. Obscured the reign of law, our stay, Our compass through this darkling sea. The one sure light, the one sure way, The one firm base of Liberty; The one firm road that men have trod Through Chaos to the Throne of God. Choose ye, a hundred legions cried, Dishonor or the instant sword! Ye choose. Ye met that blood-stained tide, A little kingdom kept its word; And dying, cried across the night, Hear us, O earth, we chose the Right! 234 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Whose is the victory? Though ye stood Alone against the unmeasured foe; By all the tears, by all the blood That flowed, and have not ceased to flow; By all the legions that ye hurled Back, thro’ the thunder-shaken world. By the old that have not where to rest, By lands laid waste and hearths defiled; By every lacerated breast, And every mutilated child, Whose is the victory? Answer ye, Who, dying, smiled at tyranny: Under the sky’s triumphal arch The glories of the dawn begin. Our dead, our shadowy armies march E’en now, in silence, through Berlin; Dumb shadows, tattered blood-stained ghosts But cast by what swift following hosts? And answer, England! At thy side, Thro’ seas of blood, thro’ mists of tears Thou that for Liberty hast died And livest, to the end of years! — And answer, earth! Far off, I hear The paeans of a happier sphere: The trumpet blown at Marathon Resounding over earth and sea, But burning angel lips have blown The trumpets of thy Liberty; For wdio, beside thy dead, could deem The faith, for which they died, a dream? Earth has not been the same since then. Europe from thee received a soul, Whence nations moved in law, like men, As members of a mightier whole, Till wars were ended ... In that day, So shall our children’s children say. In “Boston Post” Jan. 27, 1915. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 235 FAREWELL, FAREWELL TO CANADA. r Sent from London by J. P. Reidy of Cambridge, Mass., to the Boston “ Post.” He is now a member of the Canadian Field Artillery, having enlisted in Can- ada and went from there with the first expeditionary force to England. Farewell, farewell to Canada, We’ve out across the sea; We’ve looked our last at Canada, We sniff the ocean breeze. There’s some will sniff the cannon’s breath; The shell will burst for some, But we’ll do our best for Canada Whatever else may come. Then let the war notes clarion forth, The brazen trumpets sound. We’ll all be proud of Canada Wherever we are bound. The Homeland, the Homeland, The far spread towns we go, The broad Dominion claims us yet Wherever we may go. Oh. welcome to the outer seas, That Britain’s might retains; For gladly yet the British blood Goes coursing through our veins. The hot blood surging strongly now Will soon stain battlefields; But hope our loved ones left behind They never more shall yield We are the boys of Canada, From mountains and from plains. They’ll miss us from the wild west now And from the fields of grain. And many a sweetheart’s eye will dim And many a heart beat sore, For a soldier boy in khaki Who has turned his face to war. By rugged Rocky Mountain peaks, The grizzly now may roam In Kertnay’s wilds the black-tailed deer May rest himself at home. 236 SONGS OF THE GREAT WOULD WAE By Athebascas’ winding trail The moose may challenge long For our soldier boys are marching Where the German legions throng. Farewell; Farewell, dear Canada, Till none can answer when, But till a bright day hath dawned And peace hath come again. Then when our rifles we’ll lay down And old England’s again set free, We’ll turn our face towards Canada, Our home across the sea. BOYS IN KHAKI, BOYS IN BLUE! Sing a song of Rule Britannia! Sing in praise of Britain’s boys: Jolly Jack, the sailor, with his breezy style, Mister Tommy Atkins of the rank and file. They’re two lads we can depend on, When danger comes our way, For their fathers were all fighters and what’s bred in the bone Is sure to come out some day. Sing a song of Rule Britannia! Now there’s fighting work to do. Ever staunch and ready when the hour is nigh, British boys know how to fight and how to die. Lads, we know you’ll do your duty, Whatever fate may bring, You have got the pluck and muscle, so make your battle cry — For Empire, for Home and King! Chorus : Boys in khaki, boys in blue, Here’s the best of jolly good luck to you! You’re all right in love or war; You’ll get there again, just the same as you’ve done before. Boys in khaki, boys in blue It’s no idle boast or brag, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 237 When we get you both together, there’s going to be dirty weather, For anyone who tramples on the flag! WE DIDN’T WANT TO FIGHT, BUT BY JINGO NOW WE DO! G. W. Hunt. The “Dogs of War” are loose, for the Eagle of the South Has sought to fling defiance in the British Lion’s mouth. He’s asked for a thrashing, and a thrashing he will get, Britannia’s not prepared to scorn an insult yet. The Lion did his best to find him some excuse To creep back in his cage again; his answer was abuse. He hungers for a victim; he’s pleased when blood is shed, But let us hope his plans may all recoil on his own head! Since first ambitious AYilliam commenced his little game, He seemed to think the Lion would prove an easy thing to tame. He started building armies, and he started building ships; But he’ll find he’s made a blunder when we “ come to grips!” To contravene a treaty he’s done his level best— An action which all European nations must detest. Before the fight is over, we’ll teach this Kaiser vain, There’s such a thing as HONOR, and we’ll make the lesson plain ! When Austria asked for aid the German saw his chance To send ultimatum off to Russia and to France. He gave his word to Belgium, if they’d let themselves be fooled, He’d treat them like a father when the world he ruled! But Belgians had the sense to scorn what he proposed. He found them less like faithful sons than first he had supposed! He dreamt that he was drinking his fill from Vict’ry’s cup; But the gallant little Belgians were the first to wake him up! 238 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR We know that here at home, and in our Colonies abroad, All true-born sons of Britain are prepared to gird the sword, Beneath the dear old Flag that our fathers have un- furled, We’ll fight and die for honor if we fight against the World! So let the Germans come to meet us if they dare, They’ll find a warm reception if they cross the Lion’s lair! We’re quite prepared to show this monarch of ill-fame, That we have not forgotten how to play the fighting game! Chorus: We didn’t want to fight, but by jingo now we do, We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too. We’ve found a friend in need, to friends we must be true, We’ll pluck the Eagle’s talons out between us. IRISHMEN MUST BE THERE. By Felix McGlennon. Brave boys, Brave boys, once again our Empire is at war, Brave boys, brave boys, Germany is going to get “What for”; Kaiser! Kaiser! now that you have plucked the Lion’s tail, The Lion’s roused, the Lion’s roused; there’s no such word as fail, But when they dare attack John Bull d’ye mind, d’ye mind, They’ll find that Brother Patsy is not so far behind, They thought that politicians would Irishmen divide, But John and Pat, as in the past, will now fight side by side. Brave boys, brave boys, sure you all are bound to be in this, Scotch boys, Welsh boys, here’s a chance you wouldn’t like to miss. SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR 239 Faithful always to the glorious Flag that floats on high, The gallant Flag, the gallant Flag, ’neath which we’d proudly die. Our Fleet can sail the oceans wide, d’ye mind, d’ye mind, 'Tis manned by four great Nations in unity combined; ’Tis true we sometimes quarrel as brothers sometimes will, But when the foeman face us, boys, they’ll find we’re brothers still. Brave boys, brave boys, are you ready for the word to go? North Boys, South boys, don’t you want a shindy with the foe? Green boys, Orange boys, never mind your politicians now, Your country calls, your country calls, ’tis Empire claims your vow, We’re tired of bluff and bluster now, d’ye mind, d’ye mind, And when they talk of millions the trump card we can find, Yes, when they talk of millions, we’ve got a tidy sum, Bedad, they’ll get what they deserve — what Paddy gave the drum. Chorus: And what a dear old land to fight for! What a grand old Nation still; When we read our history How it makes our hearts’ blood thrill. We don’t know if the quarrel’s right or wrong, Bedad we don’t care; We only know there’s going to be a fight, And Irishmen must be there. HERE’S TO THE DAY. Paul Pelham and W. H. Wallis. Once again Britannia’s sons Are standing side by side, The die is cast, the day has come, And the sword must now decide. 240 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The German War Lord in his pride, Has thrown the challenge down, So in the right we now must fight For England, Home and Crown. His mad ambition we’ll resist, We’re not afraid of his Mail’d Fist. Once again for Honor’s sake We rally round the Flag, From English homes, from Erin’s Isle, And from Wales and Scottish crag. From sunny Australasian shores, From Canada so wide, Britannia’s sons will man the guns, All trusted, true and tried. Whatever comes, let this be heard, “We made a pledge, and kept our word.” Chorus: “Here’s to the day,” has been their toast, “Here’s to the day,” has been their boast, The day has come, but not our seeking, Bugles all, and guns are speaking, Thus our foe with his mail’d fist, Brags of what he’ll do. We understand him fully, We’ll show this German Bully, That WE’VE got a mail’d fist too. TOMMY AND JACK WILL SOON COME MARCHING HOME. J. P. Long and Chas. Lucas. When the soldiers and sailors have to march away to war, We feel sorry for the girls they leave behind them; You can’t see a single uniform in parks or shady lanes — As for courting couples, well, it’s hard to find them. So we have to say a word of consolation to the girls, For we know they’re feeling rather sad at heart, All the boys must do their duty, though they long for home and beauty And remember, girls, although its hard to part — SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 241 You can occupy the time in making wedding clothes and things, And considering all the details of the trousseau; You’ll need several yards of this, you know, and several yards of that; Be prepared, for it’s advisable to do so. Tom and Jack must both be plucky, so you girls be plucky too. Don’t lose all your pretty looks while they’re away — There’ll be nothing gained by weeping, but a smile you should be keeping, Just to welcome them when they come home some day! Chorus : Tommy and Jack will soon come marching home again, So cheer up, girls, don’t sigh — You’ll be waiting on the quay By and bye, by and bye. Tommy and Jack will soon come marching home again, So, girls, if faithful you’ll remain, All the parsons will be working overtime, When Tommy and Jack come marching home again! MOTHERLAND, YOUR SONS WILL ALL BE THERE. By Felix McGlennon. Motherland ! Motherland ! You have called upon your Sons, And from ev’ry corner of the earth They rush to man your guns. Staunch and true, staunch and true, To the flag we’ll ever be, We will fight for our dear Motherland, And keep our Empire free Motherland ! Motherland ! Though your sons have crossed the sea, They have spread the Empire in your name, Great, glorious and free, Plant the Flag, Plant the Flag, Let the world know ’tis our dream To never, never rest Until our Empire is supreme. •242 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR A glorious vision I can see, That thrills my heart with pride, Our honored King surrounded by His Sons on every side. The English, Irish, Scotch, and Welsh, Canadians, hand in hand, Australian Boys, New Zealand Boys, All love the Motherland. What care we for country, lads? ’Tis Empire is our creed, Our proudest boast — our parent stock The grand old British Breed. We’re kinsmen true, through thick or thin, Unheeding foeman’s brag, One land, One Language, One Great King, One Glorious Old Flag. Chorus: By your side your sons will take their place, By your side your foeman we will face. Glories to be won, there are deeds to do or dare And wherever the British Bull-Dogs go, Your sons will all be there. FOR KING AND SIRELAND. Edward Montagu. There’s a mighty little island, Where the west wind blows, Where the oak tree grows, And the red, red rose; And her native sons have never Failed to thrash her foes — The whole world knows it well. Though her rivals always envy her, And try to claim That she’s not the same At the fighting game, Her sons throughout the world will still uphold her name. And win anew the glories of her fame. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 243 If they tell you that Britannia Far too old has grown, Still to stand alone, And to hold her own, Say her Colonies have British pluck, Bred in the bone, As they have shown so well. There’s a host of dusky warriors On an eastern strand, Who will lend a hand At the King’s command. All Soldiers of the Empire, Side by side will stand, And e’er protect the dear old Motherland. Chorus: At duty’s call in line will fall, Whenever danger’s nigh, The boys who never boast or brag; From Colonies beyond the seas, The men who’ll do or die, Underneath the same old Flag. The gallant Scotch, the old Black Watch, Those fighting Highland boys. That dear dare-devil Pat from Ireland, Tommy Atkins tried and true, Sailor lads in navy blue, Fighting for their King and Sireland. IRELAND’S VOLUNTEERS. FelixMc Glennon. Ireland’s in danger! The cry rang throughout our land; Shall we let the stranger invade our Sacred Strand? Out from the North came a thundering “NO!” Men from the South said, “Where is the foe?” East and West replied with a cheer, “We will have no invaders here!” Says Redmond, “Here’s my hand!” Says Carson, “We together stand!” 244 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Ireland’s in danger! Old England, you want us now; Pat was once a stranger— Hear ye his sacred vow: “Take all your soldiers, Aye, every one — If there is fighting to be done, Give a rifle to each Volunteer, We will defend Old Ireland dear!” Says Redmond, “Here’s my hand!” Says Carson, “We together stand!” Ireland’s United! The old party cries are gone; Bigotry affrighted Has fled before Freedom’s dawn! Out from the north comes the Ulster call— Irish are we, and we’re brothers all; South and East and West reply, “Ireland’s our Mother, for her we’d die!” Says Redmond, “Here’s my hand!” Says Carson, “We together stand.” Chorus: Ireland’s Volunteers! Ireland’s Volunteers! Priests’ men, Parsons’ men, Redmond’s men and Carson’s men: North, east, south, west, hear their rousing cheers — Ireland is defended now, by the Irish Volunteers! IT’S JUST LIKE BEING AT HOME. William Hargreaves. A Highland regiment was forced to start To a distant land across the foam, Whilst a poor old mother, with a heavy heart, Waited anxiously at home. Soon her sad face turn’d into a smiling one, When a letter came across the sea; For it said, “Don’t cry, don’t you sigh! “I’m as happy as can be.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 245 A fierce fight lengthened, and the months dragged on, Whilst the roll-call shorten’d day by day, Though they saw their comrades falling one by one, Yet they bravely fought their way, For the handful left had sworn to do or die, And with one long cheer they forg’d ahead, And a Highland lad fought like mad, As the mother proudly read. The flag was planted ’neath a scorching sun, Where the white man’s rule will ever reign, And the brave Scotch soldiers who had fought and won Were returning home again. And the Highland mother watched the passing ranks, For the face of one she loved so dear, And in frenzied joy kissed her boy, As he whispered in her ear. Chorus : There’s a piper playing in the morning, An old Scotch tune so fine, There’s a tartan plaid upon each laddie, And strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” I can hear them praising Bonnie Scotland In every tent I roam, So don’t sigh, dear, I’m all right here, It’s just like being at home. THE BULLDOG’S BARK. George R. Simms and Frank Dix. There are enemies around us who are jealous of our fame, We have made a mighty empire and they’d like to do the same, And they think the way to do it is to catch us on the nap, While they push our friends and neighbors from their places on the map. But if upon our property they’d trespass in the dark, They’il find a good old watchdog who can bite as well as bark. 246 SONGS OF TH E GREAT WORLD WAR We believe in peaceful methods, and on Peace our hopes are set; All that War would cost the Nation we’re not likely to forget ; We’re no cock-a-doodle people who are crowing for a fight, But we mean to keep our motto of “Our country and our right.” Of the banner of our empire we will guard each sacred fold, And our message to the world is, “What we have we mean to hold.” Chorus : In the annals of our race, we have always held our place, And, by jingo, if it’s coming to a mill, We’ve the ships, and we’ve the men, strong and steady now as then — And we mean to be the top dog still, Bov/! wow! yes! we mean to be the top dog still. SONS OF AUSTRALIA. Felix McGlennon. Sons of Australia, hear the Mother calling, Calling to her sons who’re scatter’d far and wide; Sons of Australia, hear those insults galling, She who bore you wants her offspring standing by her side! Bred for fighting, built to stay, Never yielding, never knew the way, When they defied our Mother, threaten’d with their guns, Did they think that such a Grand Old Mother had no sons? Sons of Australia, are your pulses thrilling, Thrilling at the chance to thrash your Empire’s foes? Sons of Australia, how your ranks are filling, As you think of Motherland, your heart’s blood quicker flows. Pluck and muscle, blood and brain, Born of heroes link’d in Empire’s Chain, Proud of your grand old birthright, glorious and free, Mighty monarch of the Nation — ruler of the sea. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 247 Sons of Australia, read your Empire’s story, How your fathers built it — shall that Empire wane? Sons of Australia, ne’er must fade their glory, Vow what gallant sires have fought for, their sons will maintain ! Heav’n hath willed it— ’tis decreed, World-wide rulers — we the grand old breed, We who have fought for freedom — scorning all things base — Must fulfil our destiny to be the ruling race. SONS OF THE SEA. Felix McGlennon. Have you heard the German Eagle scream, O’er the world so vauntingly? Do you know the mighty Kaiser’s dream, Why he speaks so tauntingly? Have you heard he built a mighty Fleet, Ruler of the World he’d be; He imagines he can break or bend The men who’ve been, and ever will be, free. But one thing we possess, they forget, they forget, The Lads in Blue, they’ve met, often met, often met. Have you heard they’ll come in battle line? Then we’ll test their bravery. Do you know they’d like to sweep the brine, Bind us, lads, in slavery? They imagine battleships in air, Submarines and guns will do, But we know ’twas British hearts of oak, In every battle pulled us safely through. For one thing we possess, they forget, they forget, The Lads in Blue they’ve met, often met, often met. If they’d know why Britons rule the waves, If they’d solve the mystery, If they’d know the deeds of Britons Braves, Let them read their history, Let them search the bottom of the seas, Where their battered hulks now lie, 248 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Let them build their puny ships of war, We build men prepared to do or die. There’s one thing we possess they forget, they forget, The Lads in Blue they’ve met, often met, often met. Chorus: Sons of the Sea, all British born, Sailing ev’ry ocean, laughing foes to scorn, They may build their ships, my lads, L\- And think they know the game, But they can’t build the Boys of the Bulldog Breed, Who made old England’s name. YOUR KINO AND COUNTRY WANT YOU. Paul A. Rubens. We’ve watched you playing cricket, And ev’ry kind of game, At football, golf and polo, You men have made your name. But now your country calls you, To play your part in war, And no matter what befalls you, We shall love you all the more, So come and join the forces, As your fathers did before. We want you from all quarters, So help, us, south and north, We want you in your thousands, From Falmouth to the Forth, You’ll never find us fail you, When you are in distress, So, answer when we hail you, And let the word be “Yes,” And so your name in years to come, Each mother’s son shall bless. It’s easy for us women, To stay at home and shout, But remember there’s a duty, To the men who first went out. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 249 The odds against that handful. Were nearly four to one, And we cannot rest until It’s man for man and gun for gun. And every woman’s duty Is to see that duty done. Chorus : Oh, we don’t want to lose you, But we think you ought to go, For your King and country Both need you so; We shall want you and miss you, But with all our might and main, We shall cheer you, thank you, bless you. When you come back again. STICK TO YOUR GUNS. Arthur Wimperis. We didn’t pick the quarrel, and we didn’t want the row, We’d have stopped it if they gave us half a chance; But the beggars wouldn’t have it, and we’re fairly in it now, For it’s up to us to keep our faith with France. There’s not much good in talking when there’s fighting to be done, Or in cheering at a London music hall; What we really want to see is ev’ry man behind a gun, For it looks as tho’ the country needs ’em all. So come along, of every kind and character and cut, The time has come to show us what you’re worth, The “Brickie” and the Barrister, the “Navvy” and the “Nut,” And our cousins from the corners of the earth. You’re the same old solid Britons, with the same old solid grit, That has always pull’d our little Island thro’ And the dear old country’s calling, and you’ve got to do your bit, For the sake of all that England means to you! 250 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Chorus: Sons of the dear old country, Shoulder to shoulder stand, Side by side, as our fathers died For the sake of the Motherland. As in the days of Nelson, Bravely the signal runs— “England expects that every man. Will stick to the country’s guns.” SONS OF ENGLAND, SONS OF WALES. Paul Pelham and W. H. Wallis. Mother England, how we love you and our happy Is- land home! Our love for you is burning true. Your sons will ne’er forget you, tho’ they’re miles across the foam — Never do — they’re proud of you. And when the home’s in danger, and there’s thunder in the air Mother England, you will find your boys all gathered there. Mother England, you’ve an Empire that’s the envy of our foes Far and wide, and woe betide The one who dares to slight you or disturb your calm repose! By your side, true and tried, You’ll find a band of brothers who have left the bench and plow To fight for England’s hearths and homes, as only they know how. Chorus: Sons of England, Sons of Wales, Sons of Scotland’s hills and dales, Sons of Erin, Ireland’s pride, Steadily shoulder to shoulder, Come what may, we’re brothers all, Come what may it’s duty’s call, Come what may, we’ll stand or fall, For the love of dear old Mother England. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 251 SISTER SUSIE’S SEWING SHIRTS FOR SOLDIERS. R. P. Weston. Sister Susie’s sewing in the kitchen on a “Singer” There’s miles and miles of flannel on the floor and up the stairs And father says it’s rotten, getting mixed up with the cotton And sitting on the needles that she leaves upon the chairs. And should you knock at our street door, Ma whispers “Come inside!” Then when you ask where Susie is, she says with loving pride, Chorus: Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers, Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows! Some soldiers sent epistles, say they’d “sooner sleep in thistles, Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers, sister Susie sews.” Piles and piles of shirts she sends out to the soldiers, And sailors won’t be jealous when they see them, not at all, And when we say her stitching will set all the soldiers itching, She says, “Our soldiers fight best when their back’s against the wall.” And little brother Gussie, he who lisps when he says ‘yes,’ Says, “Where’s the cotton gone from off my kite? Oh, I can gueth” Chorus: Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers, etc. 252 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR BELINDA’S CHRISTMAS DUFF. ’Twas in the year when Germany Smashed up all Europe’s peace, And Britannia’s Fleet was ordered out The ocean to police. Belinda then was all dismayed, Poor Jack, far far from home, Would spend a duff-less Christmas tide Upon the bounding foam. “I’ll give dear Jack a real surprise, A proper mother’s treat: The Christmas pudding that I’ll send He cannot help but eat.” Although her cooking never had Gone past plain apple tart, She guessed, with “Mrs. Beeton’s” aid To make a real good start. Her own fair hands soon stoned the plums, She even chopped the suet, And vowed this pudding would be hers No other one would do it. The duff was made, a good y one, And packed up strong and neat. And reached, eventually, Dear Jack, On board the “Squirt,” Grand Fleet. “Belinda, sweetheart, what is this?” He muttered as he hacked, But after thirty minutes’ work ’Twas neither bent nor cracked. Then suddenly the bugle call Gave out its shrill alarm, And Jack closed up as turret’s crew The pudding ’neatli his arm. The German Fleet was out from Kiel The order came to load, And Jack he wasted not a tick, Belinda’s duff was stowed. Just what trajectory was reached I really cannot say, But all was well until a ship Got in its hurried way. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 253 The battle-cruiser “Von der Tann” Went up in one big puff, As her magazine was punctured By Belinda’s Christmas duff! ONLY A SCRAP OF PAPER. Only a scrap of paper, Only a Teuton’s word, To stay the march of an army And the mighty German sword. Then put the scrip to the taper, Let loose the Prussian horde — It’s only a scrap of paper. Bearing the Kaiser’s word. Only a scrap of paper, Only a Briton’s word, Behind it stands his navy With a million tars aboard. Do ye think ’tis but a vapor? A boast from England heard — It’s only a scrap of paper Bearing a Briton’s word. The hearts of Scotch and Irish Beat time to the English drum; Canadians and hardy Bushmen Are singing as they come. For the call of the British drumbeat Around the world is heard — They’ll die for that scrap of paper For ENGLAND KEEPS HER WORD! Worcester, Mass. Odiorne Gleason. TO WILHELM II Marplot of war, Knight of the tarnished mail! You say the sword was thrust into your hand; ’Twas Belgium’s blame you trod across her land; And English will would now your fame assail. Against God’s word, how shall your lies prevail? Your honor’s torn to rags at His command; 254 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Mercy and justice long have fled your land; And even your brute force at last will fail. In trumpet tones beyond the cannon’s roar, The truth proclaims you false forevermore. Can you not read the writing on the wall? Ye who the damned orgy set beside, A new Belshazzar, drunken in your pride, Ere a new Daniel prophesy your fall! Henry Harmon Chamberlin. THE VAGUE TRIBUNAL. The following poem, written by Dr. Charles E. H. Higgins of Worcester, was published in the “Gazette" July 30, 1904. It is strangely prophetic in view of what has taken place in Europe the past seven months. The Eagle, Lion and the Bear, And others from afar and near, Once met and talked of friendships rare, And called each other “dear.” And the vague tribunal met. Then they, well groomed and fully fed, Swapped compliments from day to day, Until the feeling sort of spread As brothers bound were they; And the vague tribunal talked. Like all menageries that tent From place to place in summer time, With fond adieus they broke and went, Each to his native clime; And the vague tribunal closed. Now, while the smoke of battle rolls From off the Oriental shore, Let fingers dipped in blood-filled bowls Paint this, the wide world o’er: The vague tribunal sleeps — ***** and reaps — * * * blood. They never fail who die in a great cause. — Byron. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 255 BIRDS OF EMPIRE. O Frederich Barbarossa, Wake, you are needed now! The Fatherland’s in danger; The ravens leave the howe. They drive against the storm wind, Toward Ypres’ misty plain; Afar they scent the carnage, The heaps of German slain. O’er Dixmude’s smoldering ruins, They raise their baneful cry, Where Prussia’s fated thousands, In bloody harvest lie. O’er Polish bogs and marshes, By Warta’s crimson stream. O’er broken guns and eagles, Loud, loud the raven’s scream. In the Vosges the frozen passes, In the Argonne forest frore, They croak the German dirges For an empire lost once more. 0 Frederich Barbarossa You’ve slumbered all too long! Your sons forgot their knighthood, And dreamed a rule of wrong. They spurned the ermined mantle Of Justice, Truth and Right. For crown and consecration They sought the Prince of Night. Hark, how the circling ravens Scream o’er their murdering hordes, Forboding fresh disaster For their dishonored swords! In vain they rage and ruin, Pillage and sack in vain; For the ravens scream above them. And gorge upon their slain. 256 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Yea, in the fields of Europe, Where shadowy Twilight gropes, They glut them on the heart’s blood Of slaughtered German hopes. Henry Harmon Chamberlin. In “Worcester Gazette.” LUSITANIA. A Reply. Yes Johnny Bull even yet can boast His prowess on the sea. His sons and daughters all will toast Him on to victory. Seven months or more the war is on And England’s swept the sea. She licked the foemen one by one; And keeps our commerce free. She hid behind “Old Glory” — true. To save her treasure; — life. And bring financial gain to you, Your children, and your wife. Let us not, then, with braggart tongue Speak lightly of the deed, For all admit she did no wrong In serving her own need. Thomas Brown. THE MEN BEHIND THE TUBE. (Torpedo=Boat Destroyer Flotilla.) By Harold Steele in “Pearson’s Weekly.” The battleship, she rules the seas; The cruiser helps her out; The men that man her hungry guns Are men indeed, and stout. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 257 But none of all those sailormen, With steady brain and eye, Can teach the swift destroyer’s crew The way to fight and die! While the man in the cruiser is sleepin’, The rain drummin’ over ’is ’ead. The little destroyers are creepin’, The mouth o’ their stacks glowin’ red, Out through the night an’ the darkness, Lashed by the spray an’ the wind, For we’re out an’ away at the break o’ the day A-leavin’ the slow ’uns be’ind! If the man in the cruiser is dyin’, The yell o’ ’is armament done, The crash o’ the wireless a-crying Will bring us around on the run. We don’t do the most o’ the shoutin’! We fight, an’ we give it ’em ’ot, For it’s God for the best at the tube-layin’ test, An’ ’ell for the one wot gets shot. When the panicky search-lights are flittin’ An’ the seas are aflood wi’ the light,. The fear-maddened guns begin spittin’ As soon as we come into sight. We ’erd them like sheep as we kill them, They glow in their ’alos o’ flame; Then it’s death at a blow for the man ’oo is slow, An’ life for the man who can aim! We are pawns in the game — never counted — But pawns that have learned ’ow to die. For, when ev’ry gun is dismounted An’ all o’ the tubes is awry, The boats driftin’ wrecks on the combers An’ water aroar in the hold, We stand till we drown an’ the vessel goes down — The same as our fathers of old! The bugles are wailin’ “Goodbye-!” There’s blood in the sea an’ the sky, Keep touch as you go — What’s that thunder below? The bulkheads what’s gone — an’ now we must go 258 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The same as our fathers of old — Cap the quarter-deck ! — The same as our fathers of old! The battleship, she rules the seas; The cruiser helps her out; The men that man her hungry guns Are men indeed, and stout. But none of all those sailormen, With steady brain and eye, Can teach the swift destroyer’s crew, The way to fight and die! THE BRITISH BULLDOG’S WATCHING AT THE DOOR. By Harry Lauder The latest song written by the popular Scotch comedian, whose son is lieuten- ant in the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders (Territorials). It’s a dear old land is the Motherland, And when she sounds the call, Her boys in the far-off other-lands Obey it one and all. For it’s every Briton’s duty To do what he can do To defend our British Empire, To stand and see her through. Chorus; For it’s a dear old land is the Motherland, Her sons are ever true; Her boys in the far-off other-lands Will see her through and through. It’s a dear old home is the Homeland; It’s as good as in days of yore; We are steady, aye, and ready, While the British Bulldog’s watching at the door. It’s a peaceful land is the Motherland; We never want to fight, But shoulder to shoulder we’ll ever stand For everything that’s right. SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR 259 It’s a dear old home the Homeland, We love her more and more; We’ll fight the German might down As we’ve never done before. It’s a grand old land is the Motherland, So let us pledge that we Will all stand by our Motherland That Britons shall be free; And that the glory of our Empire From us will never fade, That Britons ever will defend The land our fathers made. THE MEN OF AIRLY. The Highland men are marching, Evan, marching in their pride, Down from stretching glen and moorland and the far loch side, Marching at the call of battle through the pastures wide Of the heath-brown haughs of Strathairly. Hark! it is the Clansmen’s tread — ’tis I that well should know! Men with set and fearless faces, eager for the foe; Rise and take your rifle, laddie, buckle on and go From the old fond home in Strathairly. Would to God I had again the strength that once I knew When over Egypt’s bloody sod we charged the craven crew, And in the foremost fighting rank were fifty bonnets blue From the far, leal hearths of Strathairly. Now the day of youth is past and years but sorrows bring, You are all I have to give for country and for king; You are all my treasure, Evan, go and lustre bring To the fair, fam’d name of Strathairly. 260 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Go — and when the foe you meet as soldier should be met, When Death with reeking blade drives on through fields of blood and sweat, Remember that your father, lad, is praying for you yet In the quiet, grey kirk of Strathairly. M. M. AMERICA’S DEBT. THOU, daughter of the Motherland, America the free, Know’st thou the debt thou owest her, England beyond the sea? Thou shar’st with her, her speech, her laws, Thou heir of all her might, Her spirit ever breathes in thee Thou Champion of Right. The Torch thou holdest to the world, The Beacon of the sea, That Torch at her Torch thou did’st light, The Torch of Liberty. Thy path to Freedom she did carve Upon fair Runny mede, The Magna Charta there was sealed, Sweet Liberty’s first creed. Thy Greater Charter had not been, Save for her Charter Great, That was thy first foundation-stone On that thou reared’st thy State. ’T was writ in laws inscrutable, That thou should ’st bear full sway, It was decreed that thou should’st be The nations Open Way. Enthroned thou by all the world, And by all laurel-crowned, Forget not thou thy Motherland The Great, the Most renowned. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 261 Thou mother and thou daughter are The lode-stones of the earth, The whole world looks to what ye do, Ye twain of sterling worth. Thou daughter of the Motherland, America the free, Forget not what thou owest her England beyond the sea. 0 Mother great! 0 Daughter great! From furthest shore to shore, God keep you and God prosper you Till nations are no more! George Calvert. THE CHANT OF LOVE. By Essex Dane Lewis. A reply to “The Chant of Hate,” which appeared in the New York Herald of Feb. 7, and kindly sent us by Mrs. G. H. Harring- ton. “The Chant of Love,” contains a noble sentiment which will be echoed in the hearts of all who love peace. (A REPLY.) “Love is stronger than hate.” Now the paean of hate is spoken, and the psalm of wrath is sung, What sound from the British legions — from the battle lines far flung? From the watchers in the trenches — from the watchers on the seas — From Britain’s swarming multitudes in other lands than these? From India’s faithful millions — from Canada, astir? From unknown, vast Australia — New Zealand, what of her? “We are coming, Mother England — we are sworn to keep you free — - Not from hate of German brothers, but from ‘love we bear to thee. ’ Your flag has flown for justice, it shall never droop to dust; Your sons are here to champion you in the quarrel that is just, We will never forego our love — 262 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR We have all but a single love; We love as one, we have hate for none; We have one thought, and one alone- — ENGLAND. “We swing our swords for the liberty your enemies re- fuse; For the right to live as freemen and to grow to God as we choose ; No room in our hearts for hatred, no hate for those who hate. Hate is a leaden weapon, and the law of love is great! And the freedom we claim for England we claim for all who live. To those who would wrest it from us, that freedom we would give ; Freedom from king and despot, freedom from war’s decree, From the warrior-idol, Baal, to whom they bow the knee. From the thrall of their smug professors, sunk in sophis- tries and lies; From their frozen, Christless theories, their false phil- osophies. Their women, steeped in servitude — so deep they feel no chain, Meek makers of ‘ cannon fodder, ’ child bearers all in vain. From a madman, mouthing blasphemies in the name of the God of Love, Who forgets the stench from the rotting trench, that rises to heaven above. From these and from their rulers, who ‘ stones for bread’ dare give, Lord Christ deliver England and make these “dead to live.” We will never forego our love — We have all but a single love; We love as one, we have hate for none; We have one thought, and one alone — ENGLAND. “When the agony is ended, when the last man shall have died, Join with us, German brothers, march with us stride for stride, SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 263 Let us work together for glory, let us build together for peace ; Let us build the cause of the peoples so strong that wars shall cease; No nation bound by another, except for the utmost good. To bring its share for the use of all, in the human broth- erhood, And England shall bring her navies, her mighty power on the sea, And Germany her commerce and France her artistry, America her native wealth, Australia her golden hoard, And every nation come with gifts to Earth’s Temple of the Lord. Till you answer to our calling, till the song of hatred dies, The love chant of Great Britain’s sons will thunder to the skies — We will never forego our love — We have but all a single love; We love as one, we have hate for none; We have one thought, and one alone — ENGLAND.” THE CHANT OF PEACE. By Annette Kohn in “New York Herald.” Written in response to the ‘‘Chant of Hate” against England. God of the nations all, Of all the nations God, Let all the gods be slain And Thou reign God alone. By rivers red with blood, From trenches deep and wide, O’er meadows piled with dead, From ruined hearths and homes, From widows faint with woe, From orphans left forlorn, From mothers blind with tears, From maidens robbed of hope Invisible will rise A chorus that shall swell To shake the ravished earth And drown all other sounds. 264 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR Its voice it will make heard, So that the shot and shell, The steel and flaming torch, And all these fires of hell, Destroy hate, envy, lust, The greed of land and gold; Burn out of human hearts The passions that consume. Turn soldiers back to men, And men to brothers all; Turn bullets’ songs of death To seraphs’ songs of peace. When all false gods are slain Thou, King, shalt reign alone; O’er all the seas and lands Thy banner float of PEACE. SCOTLAND! Men of the moss-hags, and men of the heather, Men of the mountains, and men of the dale, Highland and lowland, alone and together, Fight with the valor that never would quail. Sons of the spearsmen, immortal with Flodden, Rally again, ’tis your country that needs; Sons of the claymore, remember Culloden, Rise with the wrath of your forefathers’ deeds. Rise like the mists, proud nature but weeping, Flock where auld Scotland’s gay banners’ unfurled Rouse ye and fight. Who says ye are sleeping? Scotland, your guerdon’s the praise of the world. Freedom has aye been thy proudest possession. Oppression ne’er harbored nor havened in thee, Liberty aye was with thee an obsession, Scotland aye glorious! Scotland aye free! Blasted the limbs of the coward and laggard,; Palsied the arm that is recreant now; Silence for ever the whine of the braggard, Enlaurel forever sweet Liberty’s brow. John Swan, Detroit, Michigan, in the “Scotsman, ’* SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 265 FOR ENGLAND. To certain American Merchants. Ye who for Germany’s gain Would break the British fleet, And sell your copper and wheat For a price beyond trade’s laws, Would you add your country’s pain To Europe’s mountain of woes; And fight for Tyranny’s cause; And join old England’s foes? For this did the Serbs advance To win the war plowed field; Or stricken Poland yield Her towns to the Teuton twice; Or the beautiful Land of France To the trenches her heroes speeds; — That ye might gain your price? For this did Belgium bleed? England, Liberty’s peer, Would you be false to her? Gains’t her now would you stir Who fights your battles today? For all you hold most dear Her brave battalions go Into the thick of the fray To combat a bestial foe. Would you allow her to fall Under the Tyrant's guns, She who gave to your sons Liberty ere you were born? Bountiful mother of all The prosperous ways of peace, Help her fight on till the morn When the night of horror shall cease! England, England my own! For you and your bleeding friends, Justice finally sends Tidings of victory sure. On the vernal winds they are blown Forth to the battle for you; And Freedom still shall endure; And God to your cause is true. Henry Harmon Chamberlin. 266 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE LADS OF THE RED CROSS. (By D. Bruce, Red Cross, Rouen.) Cam ye thro’ Normandie, lad wi’ the philabeg, Doon by Rouen and the banks o’ the Cailly, Saw ye the cars wi’ the thistle and red cockade, Saw ye oor lads as they whizzed proodly by ye? Bravely they left their loved country behind them, Their wives and their lasses lamenting them sairly; Noo in the midst of the war ye will find them, Lending a helping hand baith late and early. Clad in their khaki and marchin’ round Rouen, The hearts of the French maids they’ve captured right fairly; Cheering their way wi’ the lilt o’a Scottish sang, Answerin’ to duty’s call blithely and rarely. Here’s to the lads wi’ the Red Cross upon their caps, May danger aye spare them and fortune befriend them, Proodly we’ll watch the career of the gallant chaps, Ever we’ll pray that success may attend them. THE OLD ISSUE. By Rudyard Kipling in “Boston Herald.” All we have of freedom — all we use or know — This our fathers bought for us, long and long ago; Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw — Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law. Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing, Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King. So they bought us Freedom- — not a little cost — Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost. Give no heed to bondsmen, making war with peace. Suffer not the old King here or overseas! Howso’ great their clamor, whatso’er their claim, Suffer not the old King under any name! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 267 Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies; Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies: Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, Far beyond his borders shall his teaching run: Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled — Laying on a new land evil of the old. Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid; Step for step and word for word— so the old Kings did! Step by step and word by word: who is ruled may read. Suffer not the old Kings — for we know the breed — All the right they promise — all the wrong they bring. Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King! INTERCESSORY. (Tune — “ Melcombe. ”) Lord God of Hosts! who gave these isles To be at peace with nature’s smiles, So long to dwell in Liberty That we forget our strength in Thee; But now Thou leav’st us not untried, But doth us test, lest foolish pride Should overwhelm us and destroy The giver in the gift of joy. Lord God of Hosts! our Father’s God! Help us to bear Thy chastening rod, Our fathers builded in Thy fear Their heritage to us is dear; We can but battle for the Right, Help us with faith like theirs to fight. Like them in faith, likewise to pray; Turn Thou this darkness into day! Lord of the Nations and of Life! Men die in thousands in their strife. And Christ, too, died for all, for each — How slowly to Thy thoughts we reach; 268 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Look down in mercy on the plains Of death and suffering, loose the chains That bind men’s souls in sin and shame, And bind them to the Father’s Name. Lord God of Peace! let honor be Still found with those that honor Thee. Give Thou the conquest to the just, The crown of pride cast in the dust; Thou callest us to sow in tears, Oh! give the harvest of the years — The glory of the world’s increase Thy reign and kingdom, Prince of Peace. Barnard George Hoare, in “ Inverness Courier. ” MEN OF ENGLAND. By Thomas Campbell. Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood; Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood: — By the foes you’ve fought uncounted. By the glorious deeds ye’ve done, Trophies captured — breaches mounted, Navies conquered — kingdoms won. Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avails in land of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? Pageants! — Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 269 Your’s are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sidney’s matchless shade is yours — Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We’re the sons of sires that baffled Crowned and mitred tyranny; — They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights — so will we! GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT England! where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead: Watch beside thine arms tonight, Pray that God defend the right. Single-hearted, unafraid, Hither all thy heroes came On this altar’s steps were laid Gordon’s life and Outram’s fame. England! if thy will be yet By their great example set, Here beside thine arms tonight Pray that God defend the right. So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful hear the trumpets call, Then let memory tell thy heart; “England! what thou wert, thou art! Gird thee with thine ancient might, Forth! and God defend the right!” — “Sunday Companion.” 270 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR READY FOR THE SACRIFICE. Written by a Gunner, on his warship on the North Sea. It is not fear that brings us tears — our bodies, what are they? They’re God’s; for he created man, and gave him power to pray. That Britishers have consciences has in the past been shown; This not themselves they think of first. But those they leave at home. And now at last the time has come, we go to meet the foe, And every man will do his best to try and lay him low. But should it hap we don’t return to a quiet and peace- ful life, We died — God willing us to know that England’s free from strife. THE ADMIRAL’S GHOST. From a poem of the above title by Alfred Noyes in “Boston Post.” Those who have read Sir Hen r y Newbolt’s. roem, “Drake’s Drum” will be struck by the similarity in seniiment and spirit with the stanzas that here follow. Mr. Noyes’s poem is based on the idea of an old British seaman ex- pounding his theory that Lord Nelson was only the spirit of Sir Francis Drake returned to protect his native land on the seas, when his drum was sounded in Devon. The old seaman goes on to say: “The waves were lapping and slapping The same as they are today; And Drake lay dying aboard his ship In Nornbre Dios Bay. “The scent of the foreign flowers Came floating all around; ‘But I’d give my soul for the smell o’ the pitch,’ Says he, ‘in Plymouth Sound.’ “‘What shall I do,’ he says, ‘When the guns begin to roar, An’ England wants me, and me not there To shatter ’er foes once more?” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 271 “ (You’ve heard what he said, may be, But I’ll mark you the p’ints again; For I want you to box your compass right And get my story plain.) “‘You must take my drum,’ he says, “To the old sea wall at home; And if you ever strike that drum,’ he says, ‘Why, strike me blind, I’ll come! “‘If England needs me, dead Or living, I’ll rise that day! I’ll rise from the darkness under the sea Ten thousand miles away.’ “‘They lowered him down in the deep, And there in the sunset-light They boomed a broadside over his grave, As meanin’ to say ‘ Good-night. ’ “They sailed away in the dark To the dear little isle they knew; And they hung his drum by the old sea wall, The same as he told them to. “Two hundred years went by, And the guns began to roar, And England was fighting hard for her life, As ever she fought of yore. “The foe was creepin’ close, In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle; They were ready to leap at England’s throat, When — 0, you may smile, you may smile; “But ask — of the Devonshire men; For they heard in the dead of night The roll of a drum, and they saw him pass On a ship all shining white. “He stretched out his dead cold face, And he sailed in the grand old way! The fishes had taken an eye and an arm, But he swept Trafalgar’s Bay. 272 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR “Nelson — was Francis Drake! O, what matters the uniform, Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up-sleeve, If your soul’s like a North Sea storm?” THE INDIAN ARMY. By R. E. Vernede in “London Times.” Into the West they are marching! This is their longed- for day When that which England gave them they may at last repay; When for the faith she dealt them, peasants and priests and lords, When for the love they bear her, they shall unsheathe their swords! Men of the plains and hill-men, men born to warrior roles, Tall men of matchless ardor, small men with mighty souls, Rulers alike and subjects: splendid the roll-call rings: Rajahs and Maharajahs, Kings and the sons of Kings, Bikanir, Patiala, Ratlam and Kishangarh, Jodhpur, who rides the leopard down, Sachin and Cooch-Behar, From lands where skies are molten, and suns strike down and parch, Out of the East they’re marching, into the West they march. Oh little nimble Gurkhas, who’ve won a hundred fights, Oh Sikhs — the Sikhs who failed not upon the Dargai heights, Rajputs, against whose valor once in a younger world, Ruthless, unceasing, vainly, the Mogul’s hosts were hurled. Grey are our Western daybreaks and grey our Wes- tern skies And very cold the night-watch unbroke by jackals’ cries ; Hard, too, will be the waiting- — you do not love to wait? Aye, but the charge with bayonets — they’ll sound it soon or late ! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 273 And when that charge is sounded, who’ll heed grey skies and cold? Not you, Sikhs, Rajputs, Gurkhas, if to one thought you hold, If as you cross the open, if as the foe you near, If as you leap the trenches, this thought is very clear: These foes, they are not Sahibs: they break the word they plight. On babes their blades are whetted, dead women know their might, Their Princes are as sweepers whom none may touch or trust, Their gods they have forgotten; their honor trails the dust; All that they had of izzat is trodden under heel — Into their hearts, my brothers, drive home, drive home the steel. SONS OF ENGLAND! SONS OF FRANCE. (An appeal to Canadian patriotism.) The poem that won commendation from the Duke of Connaught. Sons of England! Sons of France! We whom God’s intent or chance Guided into these verdant parts, Hast also wound about our hearts Ties of friendship, ties of love That none may rend save him above, By whose good grace, peace and good will Are gifts of man’s estate, until Mankind himself shall o’er his head Bring ruin, war and waste instead. The “Day” has come! and with the dawn Alas! the gift of peace is gone. A stranger from a foreign shore Makes bold to step within our door, With sword in hand and gain in view. Brothers of mine, what shall we do? Say! shall we watch his greedy hands Invade our loved and native lands? Or will you stretch your hands with me In union’s strength across the sea? 274 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR We are sons of allied mothers; Let us then arise, my brothers! To the cause of truth and right Let us rise in all our might! Let us swiftly up! Awaken! Who shall see his sire forsaken? Onward! let our kinsmen see us! Onward! let the foemen flee us! Let us rally! On! Advance! Sons of England! Sons of France! —Francis LeRoy, in Boston Globe. WAR CABLES. What news from far? What news of war? Tick it out! Tick it out! All the world is waiting for The cable’s distant shout, Russia, France and Germany Are poised above the throbbing key. Tick it out from far away. The world’s at war today! 0 picture us the lightning-flash Of great siege guns and swivel guns And splendid, whirlwind charge and dash Of mad battalions. O waft to us the rhythmic beat Of many millions marching feet. Great cables, tell us from afar The mighty tale of war! And let us hear the throbbing drums And shrilling fife above the strife. Around the world the music hums. The cables give it life. They paint for us the brave romance Of ragged Russia, flashing France, And stalwart-fighting Germany, Tick on, across the sea! But when the mighty war is done, 0, send it out! Send it out! Lift the cry from sun to sun And leave us not in doubt. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 275 When the last field’s lost and won And silenced every dreadful gun, Then flash it, crash it round the world, “The battle-flags are furled!” — Odell Shepard in the “Boston Transcript.” THE MERCILESS HUN. In addition to denuding Belgium of food, the Germans have now imposed fresh levies. In humbleness she tilled her soil, And spun her clothes, and reaped her fields, And won the store of corn and oil That patient labor yields. She lived her life in quiet ways, A friend to all, offending none, And only asked to spend her days In peace beneath the sun. She loved her land and liberty, And kept her rule with courage rare, Resolved her hearth should never see A base intruder there. But she was weak, her power was small, The robber came with shot and shell, Struck down her sons, and stole her all, And made her home a hell. He stripped her fields with wolfish greed, He filched her gold with fingers red, And mocking now her anguished need Denies her even bread. He gloats to starve her, gloats to rob, “More gold!” he growls with menace grim. The infant’s cry, the woman’s sob Stir no remorse in him. And mourning o’er her children slain. ’Neath famine’s grip, oppressed by wrong, She moans in her unending pain, “How long, O Lord, how long?” 276 SONGS OP THE GREAT WORLD WAR Though Justice with her sword of might Delays, her victory will be won, And when she comes with sword to smite, No mercy for the Hun! Democritus. SINEWS OF WAR. It is not Brown’s to shoulder pack and rifle And scorn the risk of being caught or killed; To tell the truth, he’s more than just a trifle Too ripe in years and ponderous of build To shine in martial movements at the front, Yet regally he shares the battle’s brunt. What stuff composes him, what brawn and gristle! What quenchless patriotism fills his breast Who nightly buys, within the “Pig and Whistle,” Plis wonted brace of quart-pots of the best, And quaffs the nut-brown stingo, furthermore, In half the time allowed to him of yore! His old “besetting sin” become a virtue, With tankard proudly raised, a jest he cracks: “Hail, Chancellor, let nothing disconcert you! While yet I live to pay your noble tax, I pledge you, sir, and all good loyal folk, That Britain never shall, at least, be broke!” Gilbert H. Collins, in “London Opinion.” TIPPERARY IN BRAID SCOTCH. “It’s a Lang, Lang Way tae Auchtermuchty. ” (This parody is by the Rev. W. Parton Shin ton, of Gravesend and will no doubt be much appreciated by the “kilted laddies’' at, the front, as well as by all the Scottish soldiers who are so splendidly upholding the ancient renown of their regiments in the firing-line. “London Tidbits.) Up tae feckless London came a Hielan’man lang syne; As the Southrons were a wee bit saft he prospered fine; Kept awa’ frae Piccadilly, Strand, an’ Leicester Square; Stickit tae his wee bit chairge, forbye his hert was sair. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 277 Chorus : It’s a lang way tae Auchtermuchty, It’s a lang way tae Perth, It’s a lang way tae get tae anywhere Frae anywhere else on airth. Guidbye tae Ballachulish, Farewell but an’ ben; It’s a lang, lang way tae Auchtermuchty, But I’ll gang back again. Sandy sent a wee bit screed tae tell the lass he lo’ed “O’ the kiltie laddies a’ the Empire’s michty prood. If my letter should be longer, Kirsty, dear,” said he, “Remember that I’m somewhere wi’ my rifle on my knee.” Kirsty wrote an answer maist becomin’ in a lass, Sayin, “Censors ken nae Gaelic, sae they’ll let it pass. Stay and finish fechtin’ for auld bonnie Scotland’s fame, I’ll never marry ye until the Belgians get back hame. ” THE NEW “INTERNATIONAL RAG.” 0 ! say can you see by the dawn’s early light Any trace of a ship of the dreaded invader? If so, don’t despair; we shall still be all right; We’ll run up Old Glory and thus can evade her. Union Jack! we’re still true to our country and you, But a better arrangement of red, white and blue, Called the Star Spangled Banner, is needed to save The ships of Britannia, while ruling the wave. Homo in “Boston Globe.” THE GLORIOUS DAY. From the “Cleveland Plain Dealer. Gray dawn, and the boom of a fortress gun; A cry of death, and the fight’s begun. The grass is wet with the night dew yet; It will drown in blood ere the sun has set. The killers start up from their beds in the clay, Their faces as gray as the new born day. Just a moment they shrink, for the morn is chill, But their hearts leap quick, and their pulses thrill 278 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR As they lunge to their work, and they kill with a will, And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill — For the fight is on. High noon, and the din of a thousand tones; Curses and shrieks and sobs and moans; Clashing of steel and the rattle of guns, And the drip, drip, drip, where the red blood runs. Stench on the air, and the vultures come; The starved dogs wait and the green flies hum. Death in a hundred shapes, death everywhere, On plain and on hill, in the mine, in the air! And the killers toil on, and they kill with a will, And they kill and they kill and they kill and they kill — For the fight goes on! Black night, and the killers lie down from their toil, Throw their blood-stained arms on the blood-soaked soil; And they sleep and they dream of their unfinished work, While the starved dogs gorge in the gloom and the murk And the chief of the killers walks forth on the plain, Where he stumbles and falls on the forms of the slain. And his tin medals rattle, and baubles he’s won, And he curses the dead, but he mutters, “Well done! ’Twas a glorious day, but there’s work to do still, And we’ll kill, and we’ll kill and we’ll kill and we’ll kill Till the last fight’s won!” PAPA NEGLECTED. If you are getting tired of singing “Sister Susie,” why not change over to this latest English ditty ? Mother’s sitting knitting little mittens for the Navy, Bertha’s busy bathing baby Belgian refugees, Sarah’s shaming shirkers making guernseys for the Ghurkas, O what busy bees, all sewing, 0 so busy, Maggie, Moll and Maud are making mufflers for the Marines, While Winnie winds the wool when they begin, Sister Cissie’s knitting socks and Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers, Still poor Papa props his pants up with a pin. “Boston Globe.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 279 AMERICA. My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims’ pride, From every mountain side Let freedom ring. My native country thee Land of the noble free Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet Freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our father’s God to Thee, Author of Liberty, To Thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With Freedom’s holy light, Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King. STAR=SP ANGLED BANNER. Oh! say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleam- ing, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the per- ilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly stream- ing? And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in ah', Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there. 280 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Chorus: Oh! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream: Chorus: ’Tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc and the battle’s confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footstep’s pollu- tion. No refuge could save the hireling and slave. From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave: Chorus: And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave! Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and wild war’s desolation; Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heav’n rescued land, Braise the Power that hath made and preserved us a Nation! Then conquer we must when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!” Chorus: And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave! SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 281 National Songs of tlie Allies GOD SAVE THE KING. God save our gracious King, Long live our noble King, God save the King! Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us — God save the King! 0 Lord our God, arise, Scatter his enemies, And make them fall. Confound then' politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks; On Thee our hopes we fix — God save us all!. Thy choicest gifts in store On him be pleased to pour — Long may he reign. May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice God save the Kang! 282 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first, at Heav’n’s command, Arose from out the azure main, Arose, arose, arose, from out the azure main, This was the charter, the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang the strain. Chorus : Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves, Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turn, must in their turn to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish, shall flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. The muses, still with freedom found Shall to thy happy coast repair, Shall to thy happy coast, thy happy coast repair, Blest Isle, with beauty, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly heart to guard the fair. THE LAND OF MY FATHERS. (Welsh National Anthem) The Land of my Fathers, the land of my choice, The land in which minstrels and poets rejoice; The land whose stern warriors were true to the core, While fighting for freedom of yore. O Land of my Fathers, the home of the free, The land of the “telyn” so soothing to me; Thy noble defenders were gallant and brave, For freedom their heart’s life they gave. Chorus : Wales! Wales! My mother’s sweet home is in Wales: ’Till death be passed, my love shall last, My longing, my “hiraeth” for Wales. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 283 THE BELGIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM, LA BRABANCONNE. It wa3 during the defence of Brussels against the royal troops that the Bel- gian National Anthem came into being. Its author was Hippolyte Louis Alexander Dechet, actor and poet, better known under his stage name of Jenneval. He had been a member of the company of the Theatre de la Monnaie at Brussels, but when the citizens of the Belgian capital began to strike for independence he threw in his lot with them, and in the intervals of fighting wrote the verses which have become the Belgian National Anthem. On Oc- tober 19 he was killed at Lierre during an affair of outposts on the river Rupel, and thus gave his life for the country of his adoption. The words now com- monly sung are not those of Jenneval, but the version of M. Charles Rogier, the eminent Belgian statesman, who played a prominent part in establishing the first Belgian national government. Away with bondage, long enthralling! 0 Belgium, awake and arise! Now, at the voice of honor calling, Aloft thy banner bravely flies. Once again, in thy pride and glory, Nation unconquered, ever free, On thy standard blazon the story Of King and Law and Liberty! Again, with courage still undying, Fight on till the conflict is done; God is thy shield, on Him relying The victory is surely won. Rich reward shall thy labor render, Fruitful thy fields shall ever be, Till we crown in peace and splendor Our King and Law and Liberty! To all our friends of days departed A welcome we warmly accord; Belgians, Batavians, true-hearted, In brotherhood shall sheathe the sword. Nought again shall our friendship sever, Steadfast in unity are we, While we hold as watchword for ever “For King and Law and Liberty!” Again, O Belgium, still our mother, We pledge thee in blood and in song; Surely to thee and to no other Our swords, our hearts, our lives belong! While thy deeds live in history’s pages Deathless thy fame shall ever be, And the cry still ring through the ages, “For King and Law and Liberty!” 284 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR THE MARSELLAISE Arise to arms, ye gallant sons of France, The day of glory draweth nigh! Lo! the crimson banner of tyranny, ‘Gainst us dare they set up on high? 'Gainst us dare they set up on high? Do ye not hear, soldiers, the summons — The roar of the battle arise? They come to strike before your eyes Those you love, your sons and dear ones. To arms, then, comrades brave! Our land renown’d to save, March on! March on! Spare not the foe; To victory we go. What will these hordes of slaves, these traitors, In forging chains us to destroy? Why prepare they plots so unworthy? Why conspire kings us to defy? Why conspire kings us to defy? Is it for us, Frenchmen, his outrage? What transports of scorn and of ire Shall burst in words and deeds of fire! Dare they meditate all this carnage? To arms, then comrades brave! Our land renown’d to save, March on! March on! Spare not the foe; To victory we go. Let love of country animate our hosts, Our arms sustain, guide us aright! Blessed Liberty, fight thou with us — Thy defenders we in thy might, Thy defenders we in thy might; At thy behest vict’ry shall follow That glorious standard we boast, And then the bold invading host Shall behold our triumph in sorrow. To arms, then, comrades brave! Our land renown’d to save March on! March on! Spare not the foe: To victory we go. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 285 RUSSIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM. Lord God, we pray to Thee, Guard our great Czar! May he his nation guide, Bright be his star! May all his people live In happiness and peace, To always praise Thy holy Name, And never cease. And should dread war arise, Stretch forth Thy Hand, To guard from wicked foes Our dear, dear land. But all our hope shall be, That sweet peace may reign, And we may ever praise Thy Great And Holy Name. JAPANESE NATIONAL ANTHEM. Monarch of the Eastern Wave, Mighty Empire, great to save, Hail Japan! Hail Japan! Yielding not to any man! Right is Might! Fight for Right! Hail, Japan! Draw the sword from out che sheath, Ne’er shall nations say we sleep! Strike the blow, e’er the foe Steals from us the laurel wreath! Right is Might! Fight for Right! Hail, Japan! God of valor, God of war, Let our arms for evermore Vanquish foes — ever those Who oppress the weak and poor! Right is Might! Fight for Right! Hail, Japan! 286 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR SERBIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM. Rise, rise up, ye men of Serbia! Unsheath the sword in Honor’s cause! March in defense of King and country, Ne’er to submit to enemy’s laws. Rally, rally, duty calls you, And the foemen soon shall flee! With hearts aglow and colors flying, Yict’ry soon shall with us be! With hearts aglow and colors flying, Yict’ry soon shall with us be! Serbia will crush her foes. “Let no foreign yoke enthrall you!’’ Serbia to her manhood cries: Arm and fight! The Mother calls you! Triumph and glory is the prize. Gather, gather round the Standard, Raise the flag of Liberty. With sword unsheathed and cannon roaring, Serbia and Victory ! With sword unsheathed and cannon roaring, Serbia and Victory! Serbia will crush her foes. Rise, rise up, ye men of Serbia — Give defiance to the foe! Fail not, fear not, men of Serbia, Days of Are, or nights of woe! Ever marching with the Standard, With the flag of Liberty! With sword unsheathed and cannon roaring, Serbia and Victory! With sword unsheathed and cannon roaring, Serbia and Victory! Serbia will crush her foes. SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 287 WHEN WAR SHALL CEASE. Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts. The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forever the curse of Cain. Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease. And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say “Peace!” Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of warVgreat organ shakes the skies But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. Longfellow. Till the war drums throb no longer and the battle-flags are furled, In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. Tennyson. 288 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR BRITISH ARMY REGIMENTAL MARCHES The following is a complete list of the regimental marches of the British Army. It was prepared by Percival Lucas of the 21st Service Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, Ashtead, Surrey, England, and printed in the London “Observer.” Jan. 3, 1915. The Fusilier regiments, five of which are omitted in this list, usually play “The British Grenadiers.” Royal Artillery “The British Grenadiers.” Royal Engineers “Wings.” Grenadier Guards “The British Grenadiers.” Coldstream Guards “Milanollo.” Scots Guards “Hieland Laddie.” Irish Guards “St. Patrick’s Day.” Royal Scots “Dumbarton’s Drums.” ( 1. A Portuguese Air. 2. “We’ll gang nae mair to yon Toun.” Buffs “The Buffs.” Royal Lancaster Regt “Corn Rigs are Bonnie.” Northumberland Fusiliers.. .“The British Grenadiers.” Royal Warwickshire Regt. .. “Warwickshire Lads.” Royal Fusiliers “The British Grenadiers.” Liverpool Regt “Here’s to the Maiden.” Norfolk Regt “Rule Britannia.” Lincolnshire Regt “The Lincolnshire Poacher.” Devonshire Regt “We’ve Lived and Loved To- gether.” Suffolk Regt “Speed the Plough.” Prince Albert’s Somerset L.I. “Prince Albert’s March.” West Yorkshire Regt East Yorkshire Regt Bedfordshire Regt 1. “The Mountain Rose. ” 2. “Mandolinata. ” Leicestershire Regt “Romaika.” Royal Irish Regt “Garry Owen.” Yorkshire Regt “ The Bonnie English Rose.’ : Yorkshire Regt “Caira.” Lancashire Fusiliers Royal Scots Fusiliers Cheshire Regt Royal Welsh Fusiliers “The British Grenadiers’ “Men of Harlech.” South Wales Borderers “Men of Harlech.” ‘The Yorkshire Lass.” “Wha wouldna Charlie?” fecht for and SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 289 Royal Sussex Regt.. King’s Own Scottish Bor- “Blue Bonnets over the Bor- derers der. ” Cameronians “Athol Highlanders” and “Within a Mile o’ Edinboro Toon.” Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers j 1. “Kynegad Slashers.” Gloucestershire Regt \ 2. “Highland Pipers.” Worcestershire Regt “Windsor.” East Lancashire Regt “Lancashire Lads.” ( 1. “A Southerly Wind and East Surrey Regt < a Cloudy Sky.” [ 2. “Lass o’ Gowrie. ” Duke of Cornwall’s L. I — “One and All.” Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Re gt “Wellesley . ” Border Regt “D’ye Ken John Peel?” 1 A French Air. 2. “ Royal Sussex. ” 1. “Hampshire.” Hampshire Regt ■{ 2. “We’ll gang nae mair to yon Toun.” South Staffordshire Regt... .“Come Lasses and Lads.” Dorset Regt “ Dorset. ” 1. “Come Lasses and Lads.” 2. “God Bless the Prince of Wales.” Welsh Regt “ApShenkin.” Black Watch “Hieland Laddie.” Oxon & Bucks L. I “Nachtlager in Granada.” Essex Regt. “Essex.” Sherwood Foresters “The Young May Moon.” ( 1. “The Red Rose ” North Lancashire Regt ■12. “The Lincolnshire Poach- [ er.” Northamptonshire Regt “Northamptonshire.” „ t, f “Dashing White Sergeant.” { Royal Sussex. Royal West Kent Regt “A Hundred Pipers.” Yorkshire L. I “Jockie to the Fair.” Shropshire L. I “Old Towler.” Middlesex Regt “Lasso’ Gowrie.” King’s Royal Rifle Corps (all battalions) “ Lutzow’s Wild Hunt. ” Wiltshire Regt “ Wiltshire. ” Manchester Regt “ Manchester. ” Prince of Wales’ South Lancashire Regt 290 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR North Staffordshire Regt. ..“The Days When We Went Gipsying.” York and Lancaster Regt.... “Y ork and Lancaster.” Durham L. I “The Light Barque. ” f 1. “ Whistle o’er the Lave o’t." Highland L. I 4 2. “Blue Bonnets over the [ Border. ” Seaforth Highlanders “Blue Bonnets over the Bor- der.” Gordon Highlanders \ “Cameron Men” and “Pi- Cameron Highlanders / broch of Donald Dhu.” Royal Irish Rifles “‘Off, off,’ said the Stranger.” Royal Irish Fusiliers \ « St . Patrick > s Day .» Connaught Rangers J Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders “Hieland Laddie” and “The Campbells are Coming.” Leinster Regt “Royal Canadian” and “Come Back to Erin.” Royal Munster Fusiliers .... Royal Dublin Fusiliers Rifle Brigade “I’m Ninety-Five.” Army Service Corps “Wait for the Wagon.” R. A. M. C “Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still.” R. M. A. and R. M. L. I “A Life on the Ocean Wave.” SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 291 CONTENTS. A Trumpet Voice from the Past 10 Dedication 11 Our Gift Today 12 British Born Women and the War 13 We Give Thanks 14 Liege 15 I Am a Belgian 16 The Roll of the War Drums 17 War Song 20 War 21 A Hymn of War 21 The Gods of War 22 War 23 The European War 24 War 25 Edward Grey’s Answer 26 The Motives 27 The Day 28 A Chant of Hate Against England 29 A Reply 30 To the German Army 32 The Turning of the Worm 33 How Liege Held the Road 34 Belgium Held the Way to the Battlefield 35 When Struck “The Day” 36 To Arms 37 Englishwoman’s Own War Song 38 A Call to Arms 39 To the Kaiserin . 40 To Arms 40 Follow the Drum 41 Britannia’s Children 42 Bundle and Go 43 Dada’s Don to da Fyunt .44 Fall In! 45 The Yoke of England 46 The Hodden Grey 47 British Marching Song 48 The “Black Squad” in Khaki 49 Old Age Appeals to Youth 50 Your Country Needs You 52 The Auld “Reserve” 53 292 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR A Ballade of Office Boys 54 The Game 55 For Country and for King 56 To the Shirker: A Last Appeal 57 The Clan of Gael 58 To the Brave 59 To Britannia 60 Canada’s Word 62 India To England 63 England, My England 64 An Appropriate Verse — Today 65 Ten Hundred Thousand Strong 66 Three Hundred Thousand More 67 Our Drill Sergeant 68 Caterham Camp 69 A United Empire 70 The Children of the Brave 71 Drake’s Drum 72 The Fight for Freedom 72 The Cause of Right 73 “Gaze on Your Sons!” 73 To My Country. 74 Auld Scotland Still 74 Painting the Lily 75 “Where is Thy Brother?” 76 He’d Desert on the Spot 77 For Freedom 78 “Poland and Freedom Again” 79 To the Present-Day Germans 80 The War Lord 81 Letter Frae the Front 82 A Hymn to the Nameless 83 A Prayer for Help 83 The Meeting 84 Man the Trenches! 85 England in Time of War 86 The Song of the Camp 86 Battery L 87 The Call of the Trenches 88 A British Sailor’s Song 89 Cavalry Song 89 A Cameron Sleeps 90 The Ninth Lancers 91 The Germans’ Retreat 91 The Trumpeter 92 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 293 An Interlude 93 The Colonel’s Prater 93 The London Scottish 94 The Searchlights 95 The Battle of the Destroyers ^.96 The Prayer of the Man in the Trench 98 For Our Seamen 99 From the Trooper’s Ditty 100 With the Fleet 100 Bivouac Song 101 An Only Son 102 A British Naval Song 103 The Dead Volunteer 104 The Battleship Remarks 104 The Man at the Front 105 The ’Appy Thought 106 The Colors of the Flag 107 To Berlin 108 The Conquering Scots Were There 109 The Trench-Digger’s Dream 109 The Sword’s Fate 110 To the Heroes of the Northern Sea 111 Magnard 111 Which 112 The Song of the Soldier 113 The Zeppelin 113 The Camp in the Sands 114 Not Germany 115 The Army Cook’s Complaint 116 Scottish Football Heroes 117 The London Scottish at Messines 118 The Invincible Armada 119 Playing the Game 120 Two Sonnets 120 Poem by a Wounded “Tommy” in Stobhill Hospital 121 The Battle Christmas 122 The Imperialism of Ideas 122 Ye Mariners of England 123 The Toy Band 124 The Gordon Highlanders 125 Australians to the Front 127 Belgium’s Glory 128 Belgium, 1914 129 Belgium’s Wrongs 129 Sonnet on the Belgium Expatriation 130 294 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR Not These I Pity 130 “The Blind Man and His Son” 131 Hardy Appeals in Verse for Hungered 7,000,000 132 Belgium Thanks America 132 What are You Doing for England? 133 The Widow’s Mite 133 A Song for Women 134 Grey Knitting 135 The Helpers 136 The Patriot 136 On the Destruction of Rheims Cathedral 137 The Chimes of Termonde 137 A Vision of Louvain 138 The True Story of Rheims 139 Madonna of Termonde 140 My Normandy 140 The Kaiser’s Prayer 142 Sunset 143 The Price 144 To Germany and Her Apologists-.. 144 God and the Kaiser 144 By Wireless from Berlin 146 The German Saint 147 Holy Willie’s Prayer 147 Wilhelm Again 149 The Kaiser’s Dream 150 Germany’s Naval “Victory” 151 Weelum’s “Kultur” .-..152 A Crisis in Berlin. 153 The Calais of Our Ally 154 Song of the Landwehr 154 Hoch Der Kaiser ..156 A Hint to the Kaiser ..571 L’Amende Honorable 157 John’s Punishment for the Kaiser 158 Weelum’s Strategy 159 The Great “I Am” 160 The Gentle German 161 Bloudie Bill 162 The Judgment Day v 163 The Kaiser — On Tour ..164 To the German Chancellor 165 To the Censor (Uber Alles) 167 The Kaiser — and God 167 The Kaiser in Hot Water 167 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 295 “Swollen Headed William” 167 The Disappointed Uhlan 167 Blood-Guilt 168 Von Kluck 169 Austrian War Lament 170 Noughts and Crosses 171 Wilhelm Uber Alles 172 Who Smashed Bill Kaiser 173 Rule Britannia 174 1915 175 The Soldier’s Widow 175 Roberts V. C 176 To Our Fallen 176 The Last Message 177 Field Marshall Earl Roberts 177 The City of Peace 178 Bobs 179 The Victoria Cross 179 To an Unknown Soldier 180 Urgent! From Mr. Atkins 181 After the Battle 181 An English Mother’s Prayer— 1915 182 Bagpipes 183 Sat on a Thistle 184 Why Women are Waistless in War Times 184 A Prayer 185 From Ode on the Death of Wellington 185 From Maud 186 Lay of Sir William Wallace 186 A Scotch Lassie’s Prayer 187 Columbia 188 Europe 188 Waterloo and St. Quentin 189 To the Enemy, on His Achievement 190 Our Blessed Slain 191 In Time of Peril 192 War and the Woman 193 St. Andrew’s Day 193 Yis 194 War Lessons 194 “The Scum” 195 Survival of the Unfit 196 Song of Death 197 All is Well 197 The Real Scot _ 198 296 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR The New Year, 1915 199 A Prayer from the Line 200 The Farewell 200 A Real Scotch Reel 201 The War Budget 201 His Majesty’s Stew 202 Seventy Billion Dollars 203 “Tommies” as Seen by a Frenchman 204 Jules Francois 204 Przemysl. 205 What Shall We Do?... 206 Matri Dolorasae 206 The Searchlights on the Mersey 207 The Army of the Dead.. 207 The Vigil 208 Soldier’s Dream 209 The Married Man 210 To Our Dead 211 The Bride 212 The Drowned Sailor 212 Aftermath 213 A Nation’s Prayer 214 To Emile Verhaeren. 215 To What Base Uses 215 1915 217 The Swords of India 217 Mothers of Men 218 It’s a Long Way to Tipperary 219 The Ingrates 220 Your Dear Old Dad Was Irish 220 The Kilt and Bonnet Blue 221 Soldiers of the Guard 222 Before and After 223 The Auld Flag 223 Call It a Draw 225 From the Front 226 To the School at War 227 Those Awful Names 227 The New Neutrality 228 A German Reminder 229 From the Neutral Nations 229 The Girl I Left Behind Me 230 The Kilties in Crimea 231 Goes a Long Way 232 The Redemption of Europe 232 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR 297 Farewell, Farewell to Canada 235 Boys in Khaki, Boys in Blue 236 We Didn’t Want to Fight, but By Jingo, Now We Do 237 Irishmen Must be There 238 Here’s to the Day 239 Tommy and Jack will Soon Come Marching Home 240 Motherland, Your Sons Will All be There 241 For King and Sireland 242 Ireland’s Volunteers 243 It’s Jist Like Being at Hame 244 The Bulldog’s Bark 245 Sons of Australia 246 Sons of the Sea 247 Your King and Country Want You 248 Stick to Your Guns 249 Sons of England, Sons of Wales 250 Sister Susie’s Sewing Shirts for Soldiers 251 Belinda’s Christmas Duff 252 Only a Scrap of Paper 253 To Wilhelm II 253 The Vague Tribunal 254 Birds of Empire 255 Lusitania — A Reply 256 The Men Behind the Tube 258 The British Bulldog’s Watching at the Door 258 The Men of Airly 259 America’s Debt 260 The Chant of Love 261 England 262 The Chant of Peace 263 Scotland 264 For England 235 The Lads of the Red Cross 288 The Old Issue 266 Intercessory 237 Men of England 268 God Defend the Right 269 Ready for the Sacrifice 270 The Admiral’s Ghost 270 The Indian Army 272 Sons of England! Sons of France 273 War Cables 274 The Merciless Hun 275 Sinews of War 276 Tipperary In Braid Scotch 276 298 SONGS OF THE GREAT WORLD WAR New International Rag 277 The Glorious Day 277 Mother’s Knitting Mittens 278 America 279 Star Spangled Banner 279 God Save the King... 281 Rule Britannia 282 The Land of My Fathers (Welsh) 282 La Brabanconne (Belgian) 283 The Marseillaise 284 Russian National Anthem 285 Japanese National Anthem 285 Serbian National Anthem 286 When War Shall Cease 287 Marching Tunes of Regiments 288 ILLUSTRATIONS Queen Mary of Great Britain Queen Elizabeth of Belgium Earl Kitchener General Joffre D00743696Z DUKE UNIVERSITY UIBRARY DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA 27706 GAYLORD