The seasons come and go,
The angry seas own God's control,
His care the sparrows know.
But we, by pride made over bold,
Face Providence unawed,
And like the patriarch of old,
Presume to question God.
Ten thousand prayers in discord rise
From church and cloister dim,
When will we cease our feeble cries,
And trust the world to Him?
'Tis His the broken heart to bind,
To heal the serpent's bite,
The judge is He of all mankind,
And shall He not do right?
EVERYBODY HELPING
March, 1917
If you want a fine new car,
Do without,
If you like a good cigar,
Cut it out,
Thrift will help to win the war,
There's no doubt.
If you are too old to fight,
You can pay,
If you think war isn't right,
You can pray,
Help to crush the Kaiser's might
As you may.
If you are a Tory gay,
Or a Grit,
Throw your politics away,
Do your bit,
War is now the game to play;
You are it.
If you have good things to eat,
Pack a box,
If you are a maiden neat,
Knit some socks,
Keep the soldier's tired feet,
Off the rocks.
Get a piece of land on spec,
Plow and sow,
There's a place for every peck,
You can grow.
Swat the Kaiser in the neck,
Issue him a passage check
Down below.
THE WORLD'S OVERDRAFT
May, 1917
On life's broad fields, whate'er we sow,
'Tis certain we shall reap;
The watching scribes, above, below,
Somewhere a record keep.
The faithless church, the lying creed
Teaching that wrong is right,
The childless home, the heartless greed,
The jealousy and spite.
The feasting, selfish, idle rich,
The hungry, hardened poor,
The drunkard lying in the ditch,
The brothel's open door;
Whate'er we do, where'er we dwell,
Whate'er our names or creeds,
They total up in heaven or hell,
The sum of all our deeds.
We thought the race was to the swift,
The battle to the strong,
Like mariners with boat adrift,
We heard the sirens' song,
We put our trust in armies vast,
In battleships and marts,
We deemed but hoodoos of the past
The prayers from human hearts.
So heavy grew the moral debt
Of every class and rank,
No further credit could we get
At Satan's private bank.
The wealth bestowed by sea and land
We squandered in a day,
The devil took our notes of hand,
And now there's hell to pay.
The world will drown in blood and tears,
And famine stalk abroad,
'Til men repent their sordid years
And humbly call on God.
This cruel war the Kaiser made,
(The worst since Satan fell,)
Will end when all the world has paid
Its overdraft on hell.
SLACKERS
We condemn, as selfish slackers,
Those not willing to enlist
To oppose the Prussian Kultur
And the Kaiser's iron fist,
But they're not the only slackers,
Those who will not go and fight.
For every man's a slacker
Who does less now than he might.
There are slackers in the pulpit,
In the elder's cushioned pew,
And all through the congregation
There are slackers not a few.
There are slackers in the workshop,
There are slackers on the farm,
And slackers down in Parliament
Whose defeat would do no harm.
Some munition men are slackers,
And some who store our food.
While they dream of higher profits
And of interest accrued.
We condemn the youthful shirker
And we say his heart's not right,
But there's many an arrant slacker
Not eligible to fight.
So let each and all get busy,
If we would the Kaiser thrash.
From the man who owns the millions
To the girl who slings the hash,
All the women busy knitting,
All the men out hoeing beans,
For the war may be decided
By the work behind the scenes.
THE LOYAL BLACKS
August, 1917
Three years ago the war began,
Three years ago to-day
The Empire's call to every man
Was either fight or pay.
Some men the country well could spare
Their clear-cut duty shun
But all the Blacks have done their share
To help defeat the Hun.
My brother Jim, who worked by spells
(He had a lazy streak)
Is busy now inspecting shells
At forty bones a week.
And Jack, of course, is rather young,
He's just nineteen or so,
And Tom had trouble with his lung
About twelve years ago.
My brother Ben would like to fight,
The Kaiser makes him wild,
But if he went 'twould not be right,
He has a wife and child.
I cannot lease my farm and store,
With prices soaring higher,
If times keep good for two years more
I think I can retire.
Although we didn't volunteer
And learn the soldier's art,
We hold some good positions here
And bravely do our part,
While some the khaki suits have donned,
And in the trenches slave
We put into a war loan bond
Each dollar we can save.
But there are lots of husky chaps
Could go as well as not,
There's Arthur Mee and Joe perhaps,
Paul Pierce and Barney Bott,
And Peter Jones and Sam Delong,
And Jack Smith's hired man,
And Scotty Moss, and Wesley Strong,
And Billy Barlow's Dan.
And Robert Green and Walter White,
And others I could name;
When these refuse to go and fight
It is a burning shame;
I think they should be forced to go,
Conscription is the plan
To catch these chaps so very slow
And make them play the man.
THE TROUBLES OF TINO
War pot is still stewing,
Not a sign of peace,
Trouble now is brewing
'Round the shores of Greece;
Tino needs our pity,
Threatened by the Huns,
Seaboard town and city
Faced by British guns.
If he helps the Germans
Lose his job for life;
If he favors Britain
Has to square his wife.
Holds no trumps nor aces,
Cannot take a trick,
Cards are all queen's faces,
Tino's feeling sick.
Tino never whistles,
Neither does he sing,
Bed of thorns and thistles;
Who would be a king?
HAS THE WORLD GONE MAD?
December, 1916
What a lack of reason
In this earthly throng!
In and out of season
Everything goes wrong;
Over there in Europe
Kaiser, king and czar,
Raise a mighty flare up,
Plunge a world in war.
Neither king nor kaiser
Down in Mexico,
Are the people wiser?
Echo answers, "No!"
There, contending factions
Murder, pillage, burn;
Plunder and exactions
Everywhere you turn.
Has the world gone crazy?
Are the men all fools?
Is our thinking hazy,
Spite of all our schools?
THE TREES
The wind that through the forest blows
May scatter leaves and blossoms wide.
The parent tree but firmer grows
When by the tempest torn and tried.
The stately oak withstands the storm
That rocks its boughs in fiercest strife;
The winds that shake its sturdy form
But give a deeper, stronger life.
The maple leaves are falling fast,
The sugar groves look gaunt and grim,
But sap will flow when winter's past,
And sweetness course through every limb.
The mighty eucalyptus tree
But sheds its bark at winter's call
Its leaves retain their greenery,
And yield a curing oil for all.
A seedling in the Maori's time,
Now, toughened by a thousand gales,
Straight stands the kauri in its prime,
Fit mast for proudest ship that sails.
Drooping its weary fronds, the palm
In sorrow stands on sun-baked plain
Till comes, like blessed healing balm,
The early and the latter rain.
The noble banyan dying lives,
In youth 'twould shield a single man,
In age its spreading shelter gives
Shade for a prince's caravan.
No weaklings these, their roots deep down
In Mother Earth retain their hold.
To heaven they raise a leafy crown,
Sound-hearted, loyal, earnest-souled.
WHO KNOWS
=The pessimist=
Our lot is cast in evil days
We almost lose our faith in God,
We cannot comprehend His ways,
Nor recognize His chast'ning rod.
To stem the Hun's relentless tread,
His hymns of hate, his crimes of Cain
We give our daily toll of dead,
But wonder if 'tis all in vain.
=The Optimist=
Brave men must fight, brave men must fall,
Whene'er a tyrant lifts his head;
When Freedom sounds her battle call,
We must not grudge our noble dead.
E'en now the victor's shouts we hear,
On blood bought hill, o'er shell-swept plain;
The end of tyranny is near,
Our struggle has not been in vain.
=The Socialist=
If, when our cheering shall have died,
No more for sordid grain we plan,
But shed the hoofs and horns of pride,
And strive to help our fellow man,
So each will get a fair return
For labor done by hand or brain
And none can take what others earn;
The war will not have been in vain.
=The Anarchist=
If still the selfish creed we preach
Of pleasure, ease and strife for gold;
Employer, and employee, each
Resentful, greedy, uncontrolled;
Then poor men still will curse the great,
And hellish hordes will rise again
With hungry, hardened, Hunnish hate;
This war will have been fought in vain.
AFTERWARDS
When the war shall have ceased with its sorrow,
Its hunger, and horror, and hell,
In the dawn of a brighter to-morrow,
What tale will historians tell?
Will the nations get records of glory,
Of cowardice, courage or crime,
When the sages record the true story,
To ring down the decades of time?
We believe that some peoples now broken,
And crushed by the Turk and the Hun
Will arise from their darkness unspoken,
And stand in the light of the sun.
And it may be that Germans, grown wiser
And taught at so fearful a cost,
Will have hanged their contemptible Kaiser
And regained the fair name they have lost.
We believe that the allies now fighting,
And lavishing billions untold,
Will have found, in the wrong that needs righting,
A service far better than gold;
That in bearing the load of another,
In heeding the cry of the pained,
That in staying the feet of a brother,
Fresh strength for themselves will have gained.
And some lands that now cravenly study
The getting of guerdons and gain,
May have found their gold blasted and bloody,
And tarnished by tears for the slain;
And because they dishonoured their stations
Were weak when they should have been strong,
May be treated with scorn by the nations,
A byword and hissing among.
So the scribe will set down in his pages
The story the centuries tell,
That, for sin, death is still the true wages,
And broad the road leading to hell.
GERMAN SECURITIES FALL
The British guns have spoken
And Bill may lose his crown,
The German line is broken,
And saur-kraut is down.
The gallant French are storming
The Huns with iron hail;
They've given Fritz a warning,
And limburger is stale.
The Russ is westward pushing,
Herding the Huns like sheep,
Thus ends the big four flushing,
And liverwurst is cheap.
King Victor's brave Italians
Are driving back pell-mell
The Austrian battalions
And weiners will not sell.
The Belgians, too, are holding
Their end up with the rest,
They hear the Teutons scolding,
Bologna's past its best.
Roumanians, and others,
Who now are standing pat
Will call the allies brothers
When lager beer goes flat.
TROUBLE IN THE TRENCHES
The true story of the difficulty on the Russian front.
September, 1917
When Slav and Russ had raised a fuss,
And sent their Czar a-kiting,
Said Givinski to Blatherski,
"We've done enough of fighting."
"I've got a cough," wheezed Killmanoff,
"From working in the trenches,
I'd rather fight a doggoned sight,
Than put up with the stenches.
I want to quit and take a sit
In some place clean and brighter,
Let those who like come down the pike
To strafe the German blighter."
"I've got the itch," growled Dirtovitch,
"Bog spavin and lumbago."
"I'm never dry," swore Goshallski,
"I smell worse than a Dago."
"This cheese is high," grouched Buttinski,
"No hungry rat would eat it."
"This meat is tough," whined Ivanuff,
"I think we ought to beat it."
"It makes me mad," stormed Hazembad,
"The prevalence of vermin."
"You've said it right," owned Gotabite,
"I'm lousy as a German."
Said Takemoff, "Our lives are rough
In these here blooming ditches,
But mine's the worst by half a verst,
Since some guy stole my breeches."
Their pay was back, their belts were slack,
Each man his troubles blurted.
With empty guns to face the Huns,
Small wonder they deserted.
THE WORSHIPPERS
Wo Sing was just a heathen blind,
A dull insensate clod,
Yet somehow to his darkened mind,
There came a thought of God.
He shaped an idol out of clay,
And to it bowed his knee;
No one had taught him how to pray,
Alas, the poor Chinee!
An artist took his brush and paint,
And on his canvas board,
He wrought a picture of a saint,
And called it Christ the Lord;
With patient hand, and wondrous skill,
Retouched that kindly face,
But thought it ever lacking still,
In majesty and grace.
A preacher in his pulpit stood,
(His words the people trust,)
His message was that God is good,
And knows mankind is dust.
He drew a picture of a Lord,
Omniscient, pure and kind,
His thoughts, His purposes, His word,
Too high for human mind.
The Kaiser has conceived a god,
To rule o'er sea and land,
With strong, remorseless, iron rod,
In Hohenzollern hand;
A god who honors lies and fraud,
And mean hypocrisy,
A boastful, bloody, brutal god,
The god of Germany.
And thus we all our idols make,
As our conception is,
And pray our Father, but to take,
Our helpless hands in His;
To give us each a ray of hope,
To each a message bring,
Each king and kaiser, priest and pope,
Each humble poor Wo Sing.
TO JEAN BAPTISTE
O Jean Baptiste! do not resist
The military act, Jean;
You like to fight, the cause is right,
(You know this is a fact, Jean.)
When tasks are hard, 'tis not, old pard.
Your way to ever shirk, Jean;
The saw-log jam, mills, woods and dam
All tell how well you work, Jean.
It isn't fear that keeps you here,
You're active, brave and strong, Jean;
But in this scrap, by some mishap,
We got you going wrong, Jean.
In dear old France, the Huns advance
With bullet, bomb and gas, Jean,
It's hardly square that you're not there;
(Hank Bourassa's an ass, Jean.)
That we may win, you must begin
To help more in this fight, Jean,
The die is cast, forget our past
Intolerance and spite, Jean,
The things you love may worthless prove,
If you don't get your gun, Jean;
Your woods, and mines, your homes and shrines,
May all go to the Hun, Jean.
Our kinsmen brave, across the wave,
The Kaiser have defied, Jean,
British and French, in bloody trench,
Are fighting side by side, Jean.
Where duty leads, what matter creeds,
Or what baptismal font, Jean?
So let us sing--"Long live the king"
And join the bonne entente, Jean.
THE LOST TRIBES
We read about the tribes dispersed,
That Israelitish host,
Condemned and exiled, sin-accursed,
Among the Gentiles lost,
We wonder what strange paths they walk,
In what far land they dwell,
Where now does Reuben feed his flock,
And Joseph buy and sell?
In search of them we vainly roam
Through distant, foreign states,
Then find a people nearer home
With all the Hebrew traits.
They seize the heathen nations' land,
And hold it by the sword,
And deem themselves a righteous band.
The chosen of the Lord.
They deem themselves a righteous band,
And for religion's sake
They bravely compass sea and land
One proselyte to make.
They drive poor Hagar from their homes
The wilderness to search,
While Abraham, forsooth, becomes
A pillar in the church.
They scorn their dreaming brother's right
To visions he may have,
And to the warring Ishmaelite
They sell him as a slave.
Unmoved they hear the cry of pain,
Old Jacob's wailing note,
"An evil beast my son has slain,
There's blood on Joseph's coat."
When wearied on the desert track,
With hunger faint and weak,
Egyptian flesh pots lure them back,
The garlic and the leek.
The fruitful promised land they view,
But fear to enter in.
And wander still, a faithless crew,
The Wilderness of Sin.
Their enemies before them flee.
Their foemen's gates they hold,
But Esau's birthright still we see
To crafty Jacob sold.
They worship Aaron's golden calf,
But scorn his priestly rod,
And when from Marah's springs they quaff,
They murmur against God.
Though David's sceptre still remains
With Judah's royal line,
On Leah's sons are bloody stains,
And Ephriam's drunk with wine;
Blind Sampson, by Delilah's shears,
Is made grind Dagon's corn,
But only in a thousand years
Is there a Moses born.
RELIABILITY
Britannia's word was spoken
The feeble to defend,
That promise was not broken,
She kept it to the end.
Britannia's word is good,
Tried, tested, proved in blood,
In every land, 'mid snow or sand,
She for the truth has stood.
Britannia borrowed millions
In thrifty days of old,
Now, when she asks for billions,
She always gets the gold.
Britannia's note is good,
She signs it with her blood,
Each promise made, she fully paid,
Let cost be what it would.
Britannia's sons are falling,
The proud, the strong, the gay,
They heard their mother calling,
They would not say her, nay.
Britannia's sword is good,
She draws it when she should,
The flag that flies 'neath all the skies
A thousand years has stood.
THE McLEANS
The heather's on fire. McLeans from the byre,
The hamlet, the city, the wide open plains,
The lairds and rapscallions fill up the battalions
With blue blood, with true blood, the loyal McLeans.
They hear the drums rattle, they rush to the battle,
(Each man in the clan a base coward disdains),
They die in their glory, the trenches are gory
With red blood, with shed blood of gallant McLeans.
Afar on the heather, where hame folk foregather,
The pibroch is wailing a dirge for the slain,
The women are weeping, their lane vigils keeping,
Sair, sair, are the hearts in the clan o' McLean.
But mony will stick it, till Kaiser Bill's lickit,
And doontrodden people get back a' their ain,
Then Maids will stop greeting, for soon they'll be meeting
The bonnie brave lads o' the clan o' McLean.
FARMER JOHN SPEAKS HIS MIND
May, 1917
Those fellows down in parliament
Have kicked up such a fuss,
That now we seem election bent
To clean up all the muss.
The Grits are sharpening their swords
To give the Tories fits,
While they, with scorching bitter words
Denounce the faithless Grits.
All out of doors is fresh and green,
But no more green than we
Who help to run the Grit machine,
Or bow the Tory knee.
We hear the strident party call
In words no one believes;
The Liberals are traitors all,
The Tories all are thieves.
The birds are singing in the trees,
Old Summer's back at last,
The lilacs scent the morning breeze,
The crops are growing fast;
Why should we leave these peaceful scenes,
And don our vests and coats,
To hear those chaps who spilled the beans
Slangwhanging for our votes?
If we give heed to every tale
Told when the campaign's hot,
The Tories all should be in jail,
The Grits should all be shot.
Let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats,
The politicians shun,
Let's grow more beans and wheat and oats,
And help defeat the Hun.
WHEN THE GAME ISN'T FAIR
As we struggle up life's hillside
Where the road is hard and long,
Weak, discouraged, tired, lonely,
And everything gone wrong.
When we see some men refusing
Their allotted load to bear,
While their brother's back is breaking,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we see some men grow wealthy,
While their brothers die in France,
We rebel at the injustice,
And demand an even chance;
When we see some children hungry,
With no decent clothes to wear,
And some other stuffed and pampered,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we have to pay high taxes
On our little wooden shack,
Though the mortgage isn't settled
And the interest is back,
When the rich man's stately mansion,
Doesn't pay its proper share,
And he lies about his income,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we read in all the papers
How our boys are strafing Fritz,
Throwing bombs into his trenches
For to blow him all to bits,
When we think of him that started
This vile war, then we declare
If the Kaiser goes unpunished
We shall know the game's not fair.
HEINIE'S HOLLER
Britty soon now fife years vill pe done
Since ve march into Belgium von day,
But since den some beeg rifers have run
Troo de pridges, I tink all de vay,
Den already de tings seemed so blain,
Ven ve shtart oudt to lick de whole vorld
Ve vas sure dat us Shermans vould reign
Shoost verefer our flag vas unfurled.
For to see dat some tings can't pe done
All dose Junker man's heads vas too tick,
Und, inshtead of a blace in de sun,
Ve haf got, vot you call, armyshtick.
Vot dot armyshtick baper's aboudt
I can't get troo dis headpiece of mine
But dose fellers dot von wrote it oudt,
Und us fellers dat lost had to sign.
Shoost so soon vas dat Armyshtick made
Den dose allies dey run de whole show,
For already deir plans vas all laid
Ven ve back into Shermany go.
Dere vas fellers from England und France,
Und Yankees, Italians und Japs,
Mit some hoboes dat all get a chance
From some blaces not marked on de maps.
For six months now dey talk und dey shmoke,
Mit no Shermans at all in de game
Und dey tink up von pully goot shoke,
Den dey tell us to write down our name.
Dey vould take all our money und ships,
Und dose blace in de sun dat ve got.
But we ain't handing oudt no free trips,
Und won't sign no beace dreaty like dot.
WHAT WE WON
Was it for this, I want to know,
We saw our boys to Flanders go;
For this that Belgium suffered so,
That France withstood the ruthless foe,
And said "No further shalt thou go,"
That Serbia was plunged in woe,
And women wept along the Po;
That Poles were herded to and fro,
And Anzacs died at Gallipo;
That Britain let her plans all go,
Laid bare her breast, and took the blow,
And held the seas 'neath sun and snow
Danger above and death below;
That Uncle Sam, though rather slow
To scrap the doctrine of Monroe,
Got busy at the final show?
For years of blood and tears, although
We boast the Kaiser's overthrow,
The net results seem these, I trow,
That profiteers pile up the dough,
And gather where they did not sow,
That scythes of death fresh harvests mow,
Where Bolshevists fierce whiskers grow,
And no Hun yet has eaten crow;
That Wild Sinn Feiners, fallen low,
Plan proud Britannia's overthrow,
Save these the world can little show,
But wooden crosses, row on row.
In Flanders fields, where poppies blow.
THE HOME COMING
July 1st, 1919
Now that Heinie is licked to a frazzle,
And Fritzie is clipped in the comb,
We're holding a big razzle-dazzle
To welcome our soldier boys home.
They bore themselves brave in the battle
They kept themselves clean on parade,
They herded the Bosches like cattle
In many a nerve-racking raid.
In order to do the boys justice,
We need all the help we can get,
Without it the contract will bust us
And swamp the committee with debt.
So we want all old timers of Wingham,
(Although the good town has gone dry)
Fast as railroad or auto can bring 'em,
To come on the first of July.
Perhaps you've grown rich on the prairies,
Your farm in town lots you have sold,
Or, with products of wheat fields and dairies,
Have lined all your pockets with gold,
Or it may be your harp strings are rusted,
Your measures all halting and lame,
Perhaps you're discouraged and busted,
And tired of playing the game.
If so, come to Wingham this summer,
Forget the world's trouble and strife,
Our program will sure be a hummer,
We'll give you the time of your life.
We'll make no untimely suggestions,
Concerning the length of your stay,
Nor ask you impertinent questions
About what you've done while away.
=The Opinions Of Fritz=
FRITZ FINDS FAULT
("Canadians are using lacrosse sticks to throw hand grenades into German
trenches."--News Item.)
"Dere is some tings not right in dis schrap,
For dose English and French don't fight fair
Ven dey pring in de Turco and Jap
Und de Hindu and beeg Russian bear;
But already us goot Sherman mans
Ve vas ending dot var britty quick,
Till dey shtart oop some more dirty blans,
Ven dose poys vill trow bombs mit a shtick.
Ve don't mind some old rifles und guns,
Nor dose airships und Dreadnoughts und tings,
Ve don't care if dey call us de Huns,
[1] Und ve laugh at de song dat dey sings:
But dose teufels from Canada come,
Dey vould blay us von mean shabby trick,
For ve can't get avay from de bomb
Dat dey trow from de end of a shtick.
Ven ve tink ve are safe for de day,
Mit goot sausage and saurkraut filled,
Dose Canadians shtart oop to blay
Mit a game dat ve nefer haf drilled.
Ven ve see dose tings fly troo de air
Den already ve feel britty sick;
If dey hit us dey don't seem to care,
Ven dey trow dose old bombs mit a shtick.
Ven ve shoots all our cartridge avay,
Und de vagons don't pring any more;
Ven our shells get more scarce efry day,
Mit our shirts und our breechaloons tore,
Und de shmokes und de limburger done
(Dot is spreading it on britty tick),
Den I tells you it isn't no fun
Ven dose poys vill trow bombs mit a shtick."
[Footnote 1: Tipperary]
FRITZ HAS ANOTHER GROUCH
(The Germans say that if it hadn't been for the Canadian Rats they would
have got through to Calais.--News Item.)
Dere's a ting dat I'll nefer furshtay.
Ven ve shtart oop dat goot poison gas,
Vy dose Rats don't get oudt of de vay,
So us Shermans to Ypres can pass.
Ven ve shoots all our cartridge avay,
Dat's already deir time to retreat;
Vot's de use so ve make de beeg fight,
If dose Rats don't know ven dey get beat?