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War Rhymes
[Illustration]
By Wayfarer
FOREWORD
The reader of this booklet is not expected to agree with everything in
it. The rhymes express only the impressions made on the writer at the
time by the varied incidents and conditions arising out of the great
war, and some of them did not apply when circumstances changed.
They have been printed as written, however, and, if they serve no other
purpose, may at least help us to recall some things that too soon have
nearly passed out of our minds.
The outbreak of hostilities, the invasion of Belgium, the Old Land in
it and the rush of the British born to enlist, the early indifference of
the majority of Canadians, the unemployment and distress of the winter
of 1914-15, the heartlessness of Germany, Canada stirred by the valor of
her first battalions, recruiting general throughout the country, the
slackness of the United States, financial and political profiteering in
all countries, smaller European nations playing for position, Italy
joining the Allies, the debacle of Russia, the awful casualty lists, the
return of disabled soldiers, the ceaseless war work of our women, the
United States at last declaring war on Germany, the final line up and
defeat of the Hun, and the horror and apparent uselessness of it all;
some reflection of all these may be found by the reader in these simple
rhymes.
MODERN DIPLOMACY, OR HOW THE WAR STARTED
August, 1914
Said Austria,--"You murderous Serb,
You the peace of all Europe disturb;
Get down on your knees,
And apologize, please,
Or I'll kick you right off my front curb."
Said Serbia,--"Don't venture too far,
Or I'll call in my uncle, the Czar;
He won't see me licked,
Nor insulted, nor kicked,
So you better leave things as they are."
Said the Kaiser,--"That Serb's a disgrace.
We must teach him to stay in his place,
If Russia says boo,
I'm in the game, too,
And right quickly we'll settle the case."
The Czar said,--"My cousin the Kaiser,
Was always a good advertiser;
He's determined to fight,
And insists he is right,
But soon he'll be older and wiser."
"For forty-four summers," said France,
"I have waited and watched for a chance
To wrest Alsace-Lorraine
From the Germans again,
And now is the time to advance."
Said Belgium,--"When armies immense
Pour over my boundary fence,
I'll awake from my nap,
And put up a scrap
They'll remember a hundred years hence."
Said John Bull,--"This 'ere Kaiser's a slob,
And 'is word isn't worth 'arf a bob,
(If I lets Belgium suffer,
I'm a blank bloomin' duffer)
So 'ere goes for a crack at 'is nob."
Said Italy,--"I think I'll stay out,
Till I know what this row is about;
It's a far better plan,
Just to sell my banan',
Till the issue is plain beyond doubt."
Said our good uncle Samuel, "I swaow
I had better keep aout of this raow,
For with Mormons, and Niggers,
And Greasers, I figgers
I have all I kin handle just naow."
THE ALLIED FORCES
November, 1914
When Johnnie Bull pledges his word,
To keep it he'll gird on his sword,
While allies and sons
Will shoulder their guns;
The prince, and the peasant, and lord.
First there's bold Tommy Aitkins himself,
For a shilling a day of poor pelf,
And for love of his King,
And the fun of the thing,
He fights till he's laid on the shelf.
Brave Taffy is ready to go
As soon as the war bugles blow;
He fights like the diel,
When it comes to cold steel,
And dies with his face to the foe.
And Donald from North Inverness,
Who fights in a ballet girl's dress;
He likes a free limb,
No tight skirts for him,
Impending his march to success.
The gun runner, stern, from Belfast,
Now stands at the head of the mast;
If a tempest should come,
Or a mine or a bomb,
He will stick to his post to the last.
And Hogan, that broth of a lad,
Home Ruler from Bally-na-fad,
Writes--"I'm now in the trench
With the English and French,
And we're licking the Germans, be dad!"
The Cockney Canuck from Toronto,
Whom Maple leaves hardly stick on to,
Made haste to enlist,
To fight the mailed fist,
When Canadian born didn't want to.
From where the wide-winged albatross
Floats white 'neath the Southern Cross,
There came the swift cruisers,
And Germans are losers;
Australians want no Kaiser boss.
From sheep run, pine forest and fern,
The stalwart New Zealanders turn
To the land of their sires,
For with ancestral fires
Their bosoms in ardor still burn.
The tall, turbanned, heathen Hindoo
Is proud to be in the game too,
For the joy of his life,
Is to help in the strife
Of the sahibs, and see the war through.
The Frenchman who made wooden shoes,
While airing his Socialist views,
Deserted his bench
For the horrible trench,
As soon as he heard the war news.
The wild, woolly, grinning, Turco,
From where the fierce desert winds blow,
Will give up his life
In the thick of the strife,
And go where the good niggers go.
The versatile Jap's in the game,
Because of a treaty he came,
For old Johnnie Bull,
Will have his hands full,
The bellicose Germans to tame.
The hard riding Cossack and Russ,
At the very first sign of a fuss,
Cried--"Long live the white Czar,
We are off to the war,
No more Nihilist nonsense for us."
The bold Belgian burgher from Brussels,
Has fought in a hundred hard tussles,
And is still going strong,
Nor will it be long,
Ere the foe back to Berlin he hustles.
The hardy cantankerous Serb,
Whom even the Turk couldn't curb,
In having a go
With Emperor Joe,
Will the plans of the Kaiser disturb.
The fierce mountaineers of King Nick
Got into the ring good and quick,
They are never afraid,
For to fight is their trade,
While their wives have the living to pick.
THE MODERN GOOD SAMARITAN
December, 1914
The road that leads to Jericho,
By thieves is still beset,
For Kaiser Bill, the highwayman,
Is there already yet.
Thrown thick o'er half a Continent,
His blood-stained victims lie;
The priest, in horror, lifts his hands,
The Levite passes by.
The modern Good Samaritan,
Kind-hearted Uncle Sam,
Exclaims, "This thing gets on my nerves
I'll send a cablegram.
But while the cash is going free,
I'll see what I can get,
And since these chaps are down and out;
I'll steal their trade, you bet."
SATAN'S SOLILOQUY
November, 1914
Hell hath enlarged its borders,
While Satan sits in state,
And gives his servants orders
To open wide the gate.
"My most successful agent,"
Said he, "is Kaiser Bill;
Just watch his daily pageant
Of souls come down the hill.
His friends who sacked the city;
His slaves who raped the nuns;
His ghouls devoid of pity--
The bloody, lustful Huns,
The 'scrap of paper' liars,
The burners of Louvain
Shall feed hell's hottest fires
With Judas and with Cain.
The unfenced city raiders,
The crew of submarine
That sank the unarmed traders
To vent the Kaiser's spleen.
The wreckage of the nations,
Ten million dwellings lost,
Murders and mutilations,
The world's great holocaust.
The workman's scanty wages,
The souls of sunken ships;
The faith and hope of ages,
The prayers from human lips;
The livelihood of millions,
The commerce and the trade;
The untold wasted billions
Man's industry had made.
For these I thank the Kaiser;
His efforts please me well;
The world becomes no wiser;
It's growing time in hell."
THE CANADIAN WAY
January, 1915
When times are good, and labor dear
We coax the British workman here,
And should he shrink to cross the drink,
We tell him he has naught to fear.
But when the times are hard and straight,
His is indeed a sorry fate;
We let him die, with starving cry,
Like Lazarus, beside our gate.
When all the battle flags are furled,
And wolf and lamb together curled,
We loudly sing,--"God Save the King,"
And bid defiance to the world.
When some must go to bear the brunt,
And check the German Kaiser's stunt,
We still can brag, and wave the flag,
But send the British to the front.
When Princess Pats charge down the pike,
And put the Germans on the hike,
We shout,--"Hooray for Canaday!
The world has never seen our like."
But when word comes across the waves,
The first contingent misbehaves,
We cry aloud to all the crowd,
"Them British born are fools or knaves."
When other men with sword and gun,
Would stop the fierce destroying Hun,
We count the cost as money lost,
And still look out for number one.
When other lands attain their goal,
Our name will blacken Heaven's scroll,
A thing of scorn, all men to warn;
A country that has lost its soul.
THE ENGLISH WOMAN'S COMPLAINT
March, 1915
We want to ask Canadians
To treat us not as fools;
We cannot learn to play the game
Until we learn the rules.
We ask them not to try to take
The mote from our eye,
Nor say, till their own beam's removed,
"No English need apply."
We try to be Canadians,
It's 'ard we must confess,
To drop our English adjectives
And learn to say "I guess,"
We've chucked the bread and cheese and beer,
We learning to eat pie,
So please cut out that nasty slur,
"No English need apply."
We came 'ere for our children's sake,
(At 'ome they 'ad no show)
Though 'tain't just what we thought it was,
This land of frost and snow;
But we never shrink at 'ardships,
And we've come 'ere to stiy;
So hustle down that bloomin' sign,
"No English need apply."
We aren't no cooking experts,
And couldn't make a blouse,
For, till our 'usbands married us,
We never 'ad kept 'ouse;
And then we 'ad our families,
But that's no reason why,
As you should flash your dirty ads,
"No English need apply."
At learning to economize
Perhaps we're rather slow,
But when you call for volunteers
Our sons and 'usbands go;
In all of your contingents
Canadians are shy,
But Colonel Sam 'as never said,
"No English need apply."
When, steeped in military pride,
The crazy Kaiser Bill
Let loose his hell-directed hordes,
To plunder, burn and kill,
And British lads took up their guns
For Freedom's cause to die,
Brave, blood-stained Belgium didn't say
"No English need apply."
Wherever danger blocks the way
An Englishman has led,
No storm-tossed sea, no foreign shore,
But shelters England's dead;
And when brave spirits took their flight
To realms beyond the sky,
We know Saint Peter didn't say
"No English need apply."
UNEMPLOYED
April, 1915
"I haven't any way, sir, to earn my daily bread;
Give me a job, I pray, sir, my children must be fed."
"To keep your kids from harm, sir," the city man replied,
"There's no place like the farm, sir, the peaceful country side."
"I have no work to do, sir," said I to Farmer Sprout;
"So I have come to you, sir, to try to help me out."
He answered: "Can you plow, sir, or build a load of hay?
If you can't milk a cow, sir, you'd better fade away."
"Have you a job to-day, sir, to give a working man?
My stomach's full of hay, sir, my children live on bran."
"I really can't delay, sir," the busy man replied,
"Please call some other day, sir, my car is just outside."
"I want to find a place, sir," said I to Groucher Black;
"I couldn't go the pace, sir, and now I'm off the track."
Old Groucher growled in answer, "This town of blasted hopes
Has no place for a man, sir, who does not know the ropes."
"I'm anxious to enlist, sir, I am a Briton true,
To fight the mailed fist, sir, the Kaiser and his crew."
Thus answered Dr. Brown,--"Sir, in one main point you lack;
I'll have to turn you down, sir, because your teeth don't track."
"I'd like to find some work, sir," to Smith, M.P., I spoke;
"I really am no shirk, sir, although I'm stony broke."
Said he, "You poor old lobster, you have a lot to learn,
To get a steady job, sir, you really must intern."
THE HATE OF HANS
April, 1915
I hate dot teufel, Johnnie Bull,
(Der Kaiser says I must)
Mit rage mine heart is filled so full
Sometime I tink I'll bust.
Vot pisness he mit horse and gun,
Dot channel shtream to cross?
Vot matter for de tings ve done?
Der Kaiser is de boss.
Dose English, yaw, I tells you true!
Dey spoil der Kaiser's plans,
Shoost cause ve march de Belgium through
Dey kill us Sherman mans.
Mine brudder's dead, already, soon,
Mine sister is von spy,
Mine cousin rides de big balloon,
Dot floats up in de sky.
My poys--dot story I can't wrote,
I lose them, von--two--tree,
Ven English teufels sink dose boat,
Vot sail der untersee.
Mineself, I learn de English talk
Von time in Milwaukee,
I hang around de Antwerp dock,
Und hear vot I can see.
Dey tink dey'll shtarve us Shermans oudt,
Not yet, already, blease,
Ve still haf lots of saur-kraut,
Und goot limburger cheese.
Mit blenty peers unt blenty shmokes,
Und rye bread mixed mit sand,
Dis is enough for Sherman folks
Dat luf de faderland.
Ve'll tear dot English heart oudt yet
Mit eagle's beak and claws;
Shoost now ve can't to London get,
I don't know vy pecause.
Ve should haf been dere long ago,
Mit dose machine dot flies,
But tings seem gooing britty slow,
Berhaps der Kaiser lies.
HANS BEGINS TO WONDER
April, 1915
I vonder if dot's nefer so,
Shaymeezle Russia take.
You can't pelieve von half you know,
Such lies dose papers make.
I vonder if dose tales are true,
Ve lose most all our ships,
Our colonies and commerce too;
I hear tings mit my lips.
I vonder if dose Dardanelles,
Can shtop der allied fleet,
Somedimes to me dere's someting tells,
Maype dose Turks get peat.
I vonder, too, if Italy
Vill give to us der bump,
Shoost now she's vaiting yet to see
Vichway der cat vill yump.
I vonder can our army shtop
Dose Russian teufels' raid,
Or vill dey gain de mountain top
Or fail to make de grade.
I vonder if dot Balkan bunch,
Und Greece und Holland too,
Should give us britty soon de punch,
Vot vill der Kaiser do.
I vonder vere der Kaiser shtays
Mit all dose poys of his,
You pet, dey keep a goot long vays
From vere de bullets whiz.
I vonder if dot kultur's goot,
Sometimes it is, no doubt,
But ven it comes to daily foodt
I luf der saur-kraut.
I vonder if ve all get stung,
Like vot de Yankees say;
Der Kaiser maype yet get hung,
If ve don't vin de day.
* * * * *
Mine gracious! vot is dat I say?
No von, I hope, don't hear;
Dose spies vould sell mine life away
For von goot drink of peer.
=RECRUITING APPEALS=
JACK CANUCK
October, 1914
"Only forty per cent of the volunteers at Valcartier are Canadian
born." "A large number of men are being kept at home by their wives
and mothers."
--Recent News Items.
Our Jack Canuck is active,
He plays a pretty goal,
But make swift runs to cover
When drums begin to roll.
And Jack Canuck's unselfish,
He lets the honors go
All to his British brother,
When war time bugles blow.
And Jack Canuck is modest;
That's why he chooses rears,
And sees the front seats taken
By British volunteers.
Yes, Jack Canuck's a hero
Whose glory never fades;
He'll lick his weight in wild cats
--The day his lodge parades.
And Jack Canuck's free handed
He sends, (Jack's awful wise),
His dumpling dust in ship loads;
(It pays to advertise).
For Jack Canuck is thrifty,
He wants, when peace is made,
To feed the worn out nations,
And capture all the trade.
And Miss Canuck and Mrs.,
They value so the lives
Of husband, son and sweetheart,
These daughters, maids and wives.
They'll let the Belgian mother,
The French and English maid
Give husband, lover, brother,
To stop the Kaiser's raid.
They'll see sweet Highland Mary
Walk life's long path alone,
And hear dear Irish Nora
Wail for the loved ones gone.
They'll send a feather pillow
Or knit a pair of socks,
And think they've done their duty
By them that take the knocks.
Oh that our hearts were bigger,
And not so worldly wise;
'When duty calls, or danger;'
Ready to sacrifice.
WHAT OWEST THOU
February, 1915
In blood bought Belgian trenches,
On stormy Northern Sea,
Brave hearts of oak are watching,
Protecting you and me.
The British wife and mother,
The maid with sweetheart dear,
Lest those they love should falter
Hold back the scalding tear.
"Your King and Country need you,"
They say with courage high.
"Your fathers, too, were soldiers;
And not afraid to die."
Like fearless free born Britons,
Not Kaiser driven slaves,
Go heroes from the homeland
To unmarked foreign graves.
Shall we, with path made easy,
While others fight and fall,
In freedom's hour of danger
Neglect the Empire's call?
Shall we hoard up our dollars?
Shall farmers hold their wheat,
While children suffer hunger,
And workmen walk the street?
That land is doomed already
To black, unending night,
Whose old men worship money;
Whose young men will not fight.
O, for some John the Baptist!
Some prophet Malachi,
To lash our selfish conscience,
And teach us purpose high.
* * * * *
Thank Heaven there's a remnant,
A few not quite enslaved,
For ten just men in Sodom,
The city would have saved.
A CALL TO THE COLORS
November, 1915
Ye strong young men of Huron,
Ye sons of Britons true,
Your fathers fought for freedom,
And now it's up to you;
Your brother's blood is calling,
For you they fought and died,
Brave boys with souls unconquered,
By Huns are crucified.
Ten million Hunnish outlaws,
The Kaiser's tools and slaves,
Have strewn the sea with corpses,
And scarred the earth with graves;
They know no god but mammon;
No law but sword and flame,
They crush the weaker peoples,
With deeds we dare not name.
See Belgium rent and bleeding,
The Kaiser's hellish work,
Armenia vainly pleading
For mercy from the Turk.
The Poles and Serbs are dying
The victims of the Huns,
With anguished voices crying,
"O send us men and guns!"
Think of the Lusitania,
Of martyred Nurse Cavell,
Then say, "Can these be human
Who act like fiends of hell."
The Empire's in the conflict,
And bound to see it through;
Each man the old flag shelters,
Must share the burden too.
Then rise, ye sons of Huron,
All hell has broken loose,
The Kaiser's strafe is on us,
With him we make no truce.
Come, rally to the colors
Till victory is won,
Your King and country need you,
And duty must be done.
CHOOSE YE
In times like these, each heart decrees
A law unto itself;
What shall it be for you and me,
Self sacrifice or pelf?
Which shall we choose, to win or lose?
Our all is in the game:
What shall we give that Truth may live?
How much in Freedom's name?
A hero's heart, an honored name,
Or coward's part, and shirker's shame?
The awful strife, wounds and disease,
Or sordid life of selfish ease?
An open purse, our strength in full,
Or painted horse and party pull?
The trenches' mud, and trusted word,
Or tainted blood, and rusted sword?
Soul unafraid, the prayer of faith,
Or heart dismayed at thought of death?
The noble deed, the unmarked grave,
Or craven greed our lives to save?
Where shall we stand that this fair land
No Kaiser's strafe shall know?
Shall never feel the Prussian heel,
Nor German kultur show?
This we will do, if we are true;
Honor the Empire's call,
Each bear his part with loyal heart,
Lest Britain's flag may fall.
THE SLACKER'S SON
"The teacher says at school, dad, that twenty years ago
The Kaiser tried to rule, dad, and plunged the world in woe.
When Britain needed men, dad, to help to fight the Huns,
Boys dropped the plow and pen, dad, to go and man the guns.
Each man he did his share, dad, the loyal, strong and true;
I wish I had been there, dad, to fight along with you.
I'm glad you met no harm, dad, and wear no wooden peg;
For Bill's dad lost an arm, dad, and Jim's dad lost a leg.
The Kaiser was so strong, dad, that Britain almost lost,
The war was hard and long, dad, and none could count the cost.
Our men were firm and brave, dad, and freely shed their blood,
And many found a grave, dad, beneath the Flanders mud.
You never say a word, dad, about this awful fight;
Where is your trusty sword, dad? let's get it out tonight.
The other fellows brag, dad, of what their dads have done,
And Jim's dad has a flag, dad, he captured from a Hun.
And Mr. Sandy Ross, dad, who works down at the mill,
Has a Victoria Cross, dad, for fighting Kaiser Bill;
And little Tommy Dagg, dad, the youngest of your clerks,
Says his dad was at Bagdad, and shot a hundred Turks.
When we go for a walk, dad, or take our flying car,
You never want to talk, dad, about the mighty war;
Please talk to me tonight, dad, before I go to bed,
Of when you went to fight, dad."
But dad hung down his head.
BLASTED HOPES
We hoped to end our troubled days
Far from the maddening strife,
Erstwhile to chortle roundelays
Of peaceful country life;
But now the phone rings night and morn,
The trolleys crash and bang;
We hear the fearsome auto horn
Where once the thrushes sang.
We hoped the children that we raised,
Those stalwart girls and boys;
Would follow in the trail we blazed
That selfish ease destroys;
But now, when men are needed so
To fight the mailed fist,
Our girls won't let their husbands go,
Nor will our sons enlist.
We hoped the pirates all were dead,
Those horrid buccaneers,
Who dyed the ocean's waves with red,
In wicked bygone years:
But now we mourn, as happy days,
That sanguinary past,
Since Kaiser Bill a hundred ways,
Has Captain Kidd outclassed.
We hoped that kings had wiser grown
Since Charles I. lost his head,
And Bonaparte was overthrown,
For painting Europe red;
But now we have the greatest kill
Since cave men fought with stones.
Behold the Kaiser's butcher bill!
Ten million dead men's bones.
LANGEMARK
May, 1915
The maple leaf is stained with red,
Deeper than autumn's dye;
On foreign fields our noble dead
Their valor testify.
Cut off, out-numbered, ten to one,
By wolfish German pack
Our men like heroes fought and won,
They kept the Teutons back.
They held their post, they saved the day,
Those young lions from the West;
What higher tribute can we pay,
"They fought like Britain's best."
When reinforcements came at last,
Then woe betide the Huns,
From man to man the word was passed
"We must retake the guns."
Mid rifle ball and poison bomb,
Shrapnel and shrieking shell,
And all the hell of Kaiserdom,
They charged, while hundreds fell.
With fearless eye and ringing cheer
They made that wild advance,
For life was cheap and glory dear,
Those bloody days in France.
O, life is short to him who gives
Long years for selfish pay;
In righteous cause, the soldier lives
A lifetime in a day.
THE CANADIAN ARMY
The news, "the Old Land's in it,"
Stirred us one August morn,
Then waited not a minute
The fearless British born.
They were the first to offer
To die for England's name
Scorning the shirking scoffer,
Who would not play the game.
But when the German Kaiser
Of victories could brag,
Canadians got wiser
And rallied round the flag.
The Orangemen, stout-hearted,
The cheery lads in green,
When once the ball was started
In khaki garb were seen.
A regiment of Tories,
A regiment of Grits,
Discarded party worries
To give the Kaiser fits.
Battalions of free thinkers
and regiments of Jews
And some of water drinkers,
And some that hit the booze.
A regiment of Chinese,
A regiment of Yanks,
A regiment with fine knees
And bare and brawny shanks,
A regiment of teachers
Who laid aside the birch,
And one of sons of preachers,
A credit to the Church.
A regiment of Colonels,
Who couldn't get a sit,
(To judge by their externals
They're feeling fine and fit);
A regiment of slackers,
A regiment of thieves,
And one of bold bushwhackers,
All wearing maple leaves.
Battalions, too, of Frenchmen,
The breed that never yields,
Are making splendid trench men,
On Belgium's bloody fields.
Battalions from the prairies
Now man the smoking tubes;
From London and St. Marys,
A regiment of rubes.
Thus, to defend the nation,
They rallied to a man,
Our fighting population
So cosmopolitan.
Not one from danger blenches,
They vie in skill and pluck
And when they reach the trenches,
We call them all Canuck.
FIGHT OR PAY
October, 1915
The cause of Freedom needs our help,
The Old Land's in the fray,
It's up to every lion's whelp
To either fight or pay.
The bloody Turk and savage Hun
Still ravish, burn and slay,
Each loyal son must man a gun,
Or stay at home and pay.
Our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives,
They nurse, and knit, and pray,
Let men forego their selfish lives,
And either fight or pay.
The call is clear to sacrifice
Our life, our purse, our play;
Ere Honor dies, let us arise
And either fight or pay.
"England expects from every man
His duty on this day."
'Twas thus Lord Nelson's message ran
Ere he began the fray.
Shall we our noble heritage,
See crumbling down like clay,
This goodly age, a blotted page,
And neither fight nor pay?
Nay! While our British blood runs red,
Let those refuse who may,
We'll heed what mighty Nelson said
On old Trafalgar day,
From cottage, castle, palace, hall,
We'll come without delay,
At duty's call, and stake our all,
To fight, or pay, or pray.
=Rhymes For Children=
HUNTING THE WERE-WOLF
The jungle law is broken;
From forest, field and plain,
The beasts and birds have spoken,
"The traitor must be slain,"
The surly bear comes growling,
From out his lonesome den;
He hears the were-wolf howling,
Athirst for blood of men.
The fierce war eagle screeches
Across the Channel deep,
His scream the lion reaches
And rouses him from sleep;
The busy beaver hiding
In far off northern wood,
The mighty bull moose, striding
In stately solitude.
The humpy, bumpy cattle,
The tiger from his lair,
Go down into the battle
Beside the timid hare.
The elephant and camel,
The ostrich and emu,
Weird things, both bird and mammal,
And old man Kangaroo.
All vow, by fur and feather,
Each with one purpose filled,
To work and fight together,
Until the were-wolf's killed.
Meanwhile in war's arena,
Unmoved by tears and groans,
The buzzard and hyena
Pick clean the victim's bones.
JOHNNIE'S GROUCH
'Cause brother Ben has gone to fight
Across the sea so far,
I like to sit around at night
And read about the war,
But when I think me and my chums
Are fighting Fritz in France,
My ma asks if I've done my sums;
A feller gets no chance.
And when I'm marching proudly back
With fifty captured Huns,
My dad will say "retire Jack".
That's how they spike my guns.
My teacher's a conscriptionist,
She calls me "Johnnie dear,"
But backs it with an iron fist
And so I volunteer.
I got kept in at school one day
For lessons not half learned,
And when dad asked, "Why this delay?"
I said I'd been interned.
And when our test exams came out
And mine were extra bad,
I said, "We needn't fuss about
A scrap of paper, dad."
When sister's chap comes round at night,
And pa seems in a rage,
Ma only smiles; she knows all right,
It's just dad's camoflage.
And when I entertain this beau
While Sis puts on her dress,
Sometimes I get a dime, you know;
That's strategy, I guess.
My dad is getting rather stout,
And hates to mow the lawn;
But when he gets the mower out,
First thing he knows I'm gone;
But when I've trouble with my pa
No matter what it's for,
I make an ally of my ma,
And then I win the war.
THE TRENCH THAT FRITZ BUILT
This is the trench that Fritz built.
This is the Hun who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the gun that killed the Hun who lay in the trench that
Fritz built.
This is the farmer's only son, who mans the gun that killed the
Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer, weary and worn, who raised the son, who mans
the gun, that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz
built.
This is she, who in youth's bright morn, was wed to the man, now
weary and worn, 'tis she to whom the son was born, who in front of
the battle, all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed
the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn, who drives a car with
a tooting horn, and laughs at the farmer weary and worn, and his
wife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoes and beets and corn,
because the son, who to them was born, is in front of the battle,
all tattered and torn, still manning the gun that killed the Hun,
who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the maid who treats with scorn the shifty slacker, all
shaven and shorn, and his shining car with the tooting horn,
but honors the farmer weary and worn, and his wife who helps him
hoe the corn, and milk the cows in the early morn, for she loves
the son who to them was born, who in front of the battle all
tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the Hun, who
lay in the trench that Fritz built!
=Nursery Rhymes=
=Up-to-Date=
TEN LITTLE SLACKERS
Ten little slackers standing in a line,
One went to U. S., then there were nine.
Nine little slackers out for a skate,
One broke his leg and then there were eight.
Eight little slackers playing odd and even,
Got in a mix up and then there were seven.
Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks,
One got dyspepsia, then there were six.
Six little slackers only half alive,
One got married and then there were five.
Five little slackers were such a bore
The fool killer got one, then there were four.
Four little slackers out on a spree,
Auto turned turtle, and then there were three.
Three little slackers in a canoe,
Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two.
Two little slackers, one was a Hun,
He got imprisoned, then there was one.
One little slacker, war nearly won,
He got conscripted, then there were none.
One little, two little, three little slackers,
Four little, five little, six little slackers,
Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers,
Ten little slacker men.
* * * * *
Jack Sprat can eat no fat,
His wife can eat no lean,
Because upon their platter now
No meat is ever seen.
Make a cake, make a cake, my good man,
Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran,
Tick it and pick it and mark it with B,
And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.
Little deeds and mortgages,
Little bonds and stocks,
Help amid financial storms
To keep us off the rocks.
Little loads of stove wood,
Little jags of coal,
Make our pocket books look sick,
And put us in the hole.
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating his whole wheat pie,
He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum,
And he said, I don't like this old pie.
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper,
What did he sing for? White bread and butter;
But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread,
With oleomargarine on it to spread.
Farmer Dingle had a little pig,
Not very little and not very big;
It weighed two hundred or a few pounds over
And brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover.
Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied,
And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried,
"Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he,
"They need," said he,
"Good feed," said she,
So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.
One little man went to battle,
One little man stayed at home,
One little man got white bread and butter,
One little man got none,
One little man cried see, see, see,
You'll eat brown bread
Till the war is done.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run,
"High cost of meat
I've got you beat,"
Said Tom, while making his retreat.
Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill,
And fought on land and water,
Till Nick fell down and lost his crown,
And Bill went tumbling after.
There was a crooked man
Who wore a crooked smile,
And built a crooked railroad
O'er many a crooked mile,
He got some crooked statesmen
To play his crooked games,
And they all got crooked titles
Before their crooked names.
* * * * *
Sing a song of sixpence,
Country going dry,
Four and twenty booze shops
Selling no more rye.
When the bars were open,
Whiskey had its fling,
Now we ride the water cart,
Along with George, our king.
Once dad, in the bar room,
Counted out his money,
Weary mother sat at home,
Patching clothes for sonny.
Now dad's in the garden
Wearing out his clothes,
Money in his pocket,
Bloom all off his nose.
=Miscellaneous=
BEDLAM
October, 1914
"The world is mad, my masters,"
The poet had the facts
To prove this sweeping statement,
In man's punk-headed acts;
For since the day when Adam
Partook of the wrong tree,
We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered;
"What fools these mortals be".
Take out your horse or auto,
And drive the country roads,
And see the fields and orchards
Bearing their precious loads.
Old Mother Earth produces
With lavish hand and free,
But half is lost or ruined
By man's stupidity.
Ten thousand tons of apples
Will surely go to waste
While poor folk in the cities
Will hardly get a taste.
We take good wheat and barley
And manufacture bums,
Whose wives and little children
Are starving in the slums.
The man that's poor as woodwork,
And nearly always broke,
Can somehow find a nickel
To puff away in smoke;
While those who have the money
To eat and drink their fills,
Are sure to over-do it,
And run up doctor bills.
If, when the times are peaceful
I kill one man, by heck!
They'll call it bloody murder,
And hang me by the neck.
In war-time he's a hero,
Who sends through air or sea
A bomb to blow a thousand
Into Eternity.
And so, dear gentle reader,
You see, by all the rules,
That earth's whole population
Except ourselves are fools.
THE CERTAINTIES
When icy blasts blow fierce and wild,
Cutting the face like steel,
And summer's heart is trodden down
'Neath winter's iron heel,
It's all a part of Nature's plan,
So stay and play the game;
Next Spring will bring the violets,
And roses just the same.
When Pharaoh's lean ill-favored kine
Have grazed the pastures brown.
And, on a parched and starving world
The brazen sun glares down;
Though Canaan's forests, fields and farms,
Are scorched, as with a flame,
There's food in Joseph's granaries
In Egypt just the same.
When Pharaoh makes the task more hard
For overburdened hands,
And stubble fields refuse the straw
His tale of bricks demands;
What matter if our little lives
Go out in fear and shame?
The waters of the mighty Nile
Flow onward just the same.
When, at the front, to bar the way,
The Red Sea waters stand,
And Egypt's hosts are close behind,
A fierce relentless band;
Intent their firstborn to avenge,
Their Hebrew slaves to claim:
Look up, and see the pyramids,
Firm standing, just the same.
When human ghouls hell's lid uplift
To plunder, burn and kill,
And Truth seems driven from her throne,
Say to your heart, "Be still!"
Don't think that Freedom's day is done,
And Honor but a name,
For right still reigns and planets gleam
In Heaven just the same.
THE FRIENDLY SPIES
A Tale of Camp Borden
November, 1916
The main camping ground of the Huron Indians was near where Camp Borden
is now situated.
Where soldiers build their camp fires,
At night there gather 'round
The spirits of the Hurons
From Happy Hunting ground,
No sentry hears their footsteps,
They need no countersigns;
As silent as the moonlight,
They pass within the lines.
Fierce shine their dusky faces
As through the tents they glide,
Once more they smell the war paint
And know a warrior's pride;
The white man's modern weapons
Their ghostly fingers feel,
The guns so swift and deadly,
The long sharp blades of steel.
They nod to one another,
Nor knew so wild a joy
Since, leagued with the Algonquins,
They fought the Iroquois;
Among the sleeping soldiers
They pass the silent night,
And nudge, and smile, and whisper,
"White brother make big fight."
When shafts of light are breaking
Across the eastern sky,
They wrap their mantles 'round them,
And breathe a soft "Good-bye",
Then vanish like the shadows
That lurk among the trees,
The sentry hearing only
The sighing of the breeze.
JACK CANUCK TO UNCLE SAM
April, 1916
Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy,
All your pockets with cartridges cram;
The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy,
Seem to frighten you some, Uncle Sam.
You once were the first to get ready,
The most eager in Liberty's fight,
Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm and steady,
When you battled for justice and right.
Time was when each star in Old Glory
Shone for freedom all round the wide world.
The winds and the waves told the story
Wheresoever its folds were unfurled;
But now your good rifle is rusty,
All your work of long years is undone.
Old Glory, bedraggled and dusty,
Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.
There once was a time, Uncle Sammy,
When the honor of sister or wife,
E'en that of a poor negro mammy,
You'd defend, Uncle Sam, with your life.
But now, what's the matter I wonder,
You see womanhood treated like junk,
And think but of guarding your plunder:
Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?
It seems that your head isn't level,
With your Wilsons, and Bryans and Fords,
You let things all go to the devil,
And protect your poor people with words.
It can't be the killing that vexes,
And prevents you from getting your gun,
You're lynching men now, down in Texas
For one tenth that the Kaiser has done.
SAMMY
April, 1918
Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow,
That Duffeldorf blighter was running his show?
The fellow who hinted that Sammy was slack,
With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back;
For Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong,
('Twas Somebody's blunder that held him so long)
He's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came,
The chap that is yellow has some other name.
This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race,
He makes himself handy in any old place:
Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song,
Or lick any German who happens along:
A single hand talker, as good as the best,
A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest,
A long distance hiker, who never goes lame;
He's not any piker whatever the game.
There's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun,
He'll sure be a sticker when facing the Hun;
Can camp in a palace, or live in a tent,
Drink wine from a chalice, or eat meat in Lent;
Sweet tongued to the ladies and kind to the kids,
Condemns things to Hades, when down by the skids;
At home on the river, plantation or farm,
Sometimes a high liver who does himself harm.
Abstemious, very, when prices are high,
He learns to be merry without any pie;
An expert at poker, with money to spare,
A down and out broker who plays solitaire;
An orator forceful, a whale to invent,
O Sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent,
Though late in the race, Sam, we wish you good luck,
Come on, take your place, Sam, with Johnnie Canuck.
FRANCE TO COLUMBIA
November, 1916
Columbia, my sister,
Republic great and free,
When Liberty was threatened
I looked in vain to thee;
That hope was vain, my sister,
You lost your greatest chance;
Men live on lies in Utah,
Men die for truth in France.
Columbia, my sister,
You saw my blood run red,
My sons and daughters murdered,
The tears my orphans shed;
You raised no voice in protest,
To stop the Hun's advance;
Men live at ease in Kansas,
With hell let loose in France.
Columbia, my sister,
Your children you have seen,
Drowned in the cruel ocean
By German submarine;
But baseball is important,
The theatre and dance,
And pleasure rules in Texas
While horror reigns in France.
Columbia, my sister,
In sordid love of gain
Your vultures and hyenas
Wax fat upon the slain;
The nations, sorrow stricken,
Receive your careless glance,
And wealth in Massachusetts
Means poverty in France.
Columbia, my sister,
I know your heart is right,
Though on your head has fallen
This hellish Hunnish blight;
I love you still, my sister,
And warn you, lest perchance
The Huns may rule Wisconsin
When driven out of France.
JIM'S SACRIFICE
Jim marched away one summer day
To fight the boastful Hun,
In khaki clad, as fine a lad
As ever carried gun,
No braver knight e'er went to fight,
In shining coat of mail,
In days of old, for love or gold,
Or for the Holy Grail.
His aim was sure, his heart was pure,
Like good Sir Galahad,
He played the game when hardships came
His face was always glad,
Until, by chance, somewhere in France,
He saw a "Hometown Sun,"
He read one page, then in a rage
He strafed it like a Hun.
The girl he loved had faithless proved,
And German slacker wed;
That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke,
He wished that he were dead.
He who had been so straight and clean,
And every fellow's chum,
Now lived apart with hardened heart,
And soaked himself with rum.
'Mid rats and mice and fleas and lice
He spent his days and nights;
Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood,
He fought a hundred fights;
His faith was lost, the angel host
Of Mons he didn't see;
No Comrade White beheld his plight,
With loving sympathy.
The devil strip, where bullets zipp,
The narrow neutral band
Where man to man they fight and plan
To win that "No Man's Land";
Here Jim would go to hunt the foe,
He thought it only fun,
And that day lost that couldn't boast
Another slaughtered Hun.
His awful deeds so say the creeds,
Jim's bright young manhood marred;
His health was sound, he got no wound,
But sin his spirit scarred.
Some lost their health, some lost their wealth,
Of all war took its toll,
Some lost their life in bloody strife,
Jim only lost his soul.
THE ORGY OF THOR
The war god calls, whate'er befalls
His orders must be filled,
Though work may stop in mine and shop,
And farms may lie untilled.
At his command each human hand
Must toil to pay the price
In coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat,
Oil, cotton, corn or rice.
From pole to pole he takes control
Of land, and air, and tide,
Then death and dearth fill all the earth,
And hell's gate opens wide.
Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands
No white man ever saw,
Bring all their spoil, with endless toil,
To fill the monster's maw.
O'er ice and snow the huskies go,
Beneath the northern star,
And gather toll, a scanty dole,
To pay the god of war.
From out the States go mighty freights
Of cotton, corn and oil;
From West to East, to feed the beast,
The people save and toil.
The West's astir, the binders whirr
Around the settler's shack;
The threshers hum, lest winter come
Before the wheat's in sack.
The bullocks strain on loaded wain,
Piled high with bales of wool,
A season's clip from shed to ship;
The cargo must be full.
The drivers swear, the bulls by pair
Plunge panting through the dust,
Like things accurst they die of thirst
The war gods say they must.
Where battle fields dread harvests yield
The war god's revels be,
Where blood runs red, he counts the dead,
And shrieks and howls in glee.
With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs
The precious crimson tide;
He'll drink his fill, nor rest until
His blood lust's satisfied.
MOTES AND BEAMS
We condemn, with hot curses, the Hun
For his piracy, perjury, pride,
For his nameless atrocities done,
For the ten million victims that died.
Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies,
When the day of our victory comes,
While pale children, with piteous cries,
Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.
We despite the degenerate Yank
With his blood-spattered idol of gold,
Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank,
And political pottage has sold.
Then we send our poor boys to the war
With a prayer that they keep themselves clean,
And we purchase a shining new car,
Praying harder for cheap gasoline.
We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks;
They must learn to be true to their friends;
They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks,
Using war for their own selfish ends.
But our grafters their pockets may fill,
While valiantly waving the flag,
Caring nothing who settles the bill,
If they only get off with the swag.
We abhor the unspeakable Turk,
For his orgies of murder and shame,
His detestable devilish work
Done in honor of Allah's fair name;
Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed,
While afar off the publican stood,
But forget the Creator has made
All the children of men of one blood.
NURSE CAVELL
November, 1915
This world has spots made holy
By deeds or lives of love,
Has shrines where high and lowly
Alike, their hearts may prove;
This age, when faith might falter
Mid shriek of shot and shell,
Has added one more altar,
The grave of Nurse Cavell.
She cared for sick and dying,
Knew neither friend nor foe,
She spent her strength in trying
To heal a neighbor's woe.
For deeds by love inspired
The Kaiser's vengeance fell
On form so frail and tired,
Heroic Nurse Cavell.
What though the Prussian kultur
Now threatened her with death;
She met the screaming vulture
In simple, quiet faith,
"I am an English woman,
I love my country well,
But must not hate a foeman,"
Said kindly Nurse Cavell.
She faced the guns with even,
Calm, fearless, English eyes,
And then, her foes forgiven,
Made willing sacrifice;
Thus, at the midnight hour,
In Prussian prison cell,
Crushed by a tyrant's power,
Died Christlike Nurse Cavell.
But when no more war legions
In battles fierce are hurled,
When, to remotest regions,
Peace reigns throughout the world;
Where'er beyond the waters
The British peoples dwell
Mothers will tell their daughters
The tale of Nurse Cavell.
'TWAS EVER THUS
November, 1916
O preacher, prophet, martyr, sage,
Whose message falls on heedless ears,
Bethink that unrepentant age
When Noah preached for six score years;
See Israel to Baal bowed,
The persecuting Pharisee,
And all the loaves and fishes crowd
Beside the sea of Galilee.
O patriot of humble birth,
With heart to help a fellow man,
To reconstruct the things of earth
Upon a nobler, wiser plan;
The curse that mars the lowly born
Will dog your footsteps till your death,
The proud Judeans' words of scorn,
"No good thing comes from Nazareth."
O mother, when your son lies dead,
You hate this cruel world of blood,
You pay the price, with grief bowed head,
The age-old price of motherhood.
'Twas thus Eve mourned o'er Abel's loss,
Naomi grieved in tents of Shem,
'Twas thus she wept beside the cross
Who bore a son in Bethlehem.
O soldier with the shattered breast,
Beside the shell-swept Flanders road,
The One who gives the weary rest
Knows all the burden of your load.
The anguished thirst, the bitter pain,
A Father's face He could not see,
The hate of man, sin's awful stain,
He bore them all on Calvary.
EGO
The ego of the human race,
The sordid love of self,
We see it in life's hurried chase,
The grafter's greed for pelf.
The horror of the battle field,
The killed, the maimed, the blind,
The beaten foe, too proud to yield,
The ego of mankind.
The ego of the human race,
The poison in our blood,
The lying tongue, the double face,
Justice and Truth withstood.
The heavy task, the scanty pay,
The beggar with his bone,
The rich young man who went away,
The king upon his throne.
The ego of the human race,
The subtle serpent's lie
No toilsome years can e'er efface,
"Ye shall not surely die."
Eve still by serpent's word beguiled,
The curse on Ham that fell,
Poor outcast Hagar's starving child,
Cities where Lot might dwell.
The ego of the human race,
The toil each day brings in,
The idlers in the market place,
The sorrow and the sin;
Bequeathed from pre-historic sire,
In Turk and Teuton still,
The ape's inordinate desire,
The tiger's lust to kill.
FREEDOM
We're fighting now for liberty
Where'er our armies are,
We wouldn't want our king to be
A Kaiser, or a Czar.
We want no rabbi with his book,
No priest in sable stole,
For priest and rabbi ne'er can brook
The freedom of the soul.
We must be free, to work, or play,
Or loaf, just when we like,
And if we get too little pay,
Be free to go on strike:
And if, perchance, we gain our goal,
And wealth to us should come,
We must be free to take our toll,
From workman's scanty crumb.
We must be free to hit the booze
That steals our children's bread,
The cash that ought to buy them shoes,
Pour down our necks instead.
We must be free to come and go;
No Russ nor Hun are we,
There's nothing grander here below
Than British liberty.
But when, from nations drowned in tears,
For crimes by Kaiser done,
The cry goes forth for volunteers
To come and fight the Hun;
We must be free at home to stay,
While others take their chance
"Of finding little homes of clay"
In Flanders or in France.
TWENTY YEARS AFTER
November, 1917
Where men make bloody sacrifice,
And pile the earth with slain,
Kind Mother Nature ever tries
To cover up the stain.
'Mid charnel of the tiger's den
May pure white lilies blow,
And on the graves of warlike men
The peaceful daisies grow.
The grass is all the greener now
Where men most fiercely strove,
And maids may hear on Vimy's brow
The cooing of the dove.
Where cannon roared by night and day,
And men in thousands fell,
The sunny headed children play,
And pick up bits of shell.
Where once raged war's infernal din,
And bullets fell like rain
The peaceful peasants gather in
A hundred fold of grain;
And where men plied the deadly steel,
And blood ran red like wine,
We see the holy sisters kneel
Beside the rebuilt shrine.
And over on the rising ground
The fresh young maples stand
To mark the graves of those who found
Death in a foreign land;
Here women of the nameless woes,
Still pray when day is done,
That God will rest the souls of those
Who strafed the hellish Hun.
FAITH
November, 1917
The soldier, when the war began,
Presumed the cause was right,
But didn't ask the campaign's plan;
His duty was to fight.
The child, with all things yet to prove,
Still thinks the world is fair,
While trusting in a mother's love,
And in a father's care.
The patient 'neath the surgeon's knife
Unconscious is, and still,
The only hope to save his life
Is in the doctor's skill.
The farmer sows in faith his seed,
And trusts the sun and rain,
Meanwhile he fights the choking weed
That grows among the grain.