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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
B OY in khaki, boy in blue,
I am watching over you,
Going forth amid the rattle
Of the drums that call to battle.

Oft have men waged fight for me,

Fought to make their brothers free;
God protect and succor you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.

God go with you on your mission,

And in His all-wise decision
Turn this tide of war to you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.

With the Stars and Stripes high o’er you,

Snatch the vic’try just before you,
Heaven keep, encompass you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.

When the foe is rent asunder,

And the world looks on in wonder,
Paying tribute rare to you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue,

God return you safe to me;

To Columbia—Liberty;
’Tis my prayer, my hope for you,
Boy in khaki, boy in blue.
 TWO VIEWPOINTS

AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR

of The Vigilantes
Permission to reproduce in this book.

A German soldier in his journal wrote:

H E was a French Boy Scout—a little lad
No bigger than my Hansel. He refused
To tell if any of his countrymen
Were hidden thereabout. Fifty yards on
We ran into an ambush. Well, of course
We shot him—little fool! Poor little fool!
Thinking himself a hero as he stood
Facing our guns, so little and so young
Against the sunny vineyard-green, I thought
What wasted courage! for the child was brave,
Fool as he was. The pity ...

Here there came

A sudden shrapnel, and the writing stopped....

Did I write that? O God—did I write that?

Mine—they were mine, the folly and the waste.
Now the keen edge of death has cut away
The eyelids of my soul and I must bear
The perfect understanding of the dead.
Now that I know myself as I am known,
How shall my soul endure Eternity?
God, God, if there be pity left for me,
Send to my son the child that I despised
A messenger to burn into his soul
While still he lives, the truth I died to learn!
 DESTROYERS

“KLAXON”

in Blackwoods Magazine

THROUGH the dark night

And the fury of battle
Pass the destroyers in showers of spray.
As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle,
We shall close in on them—shadows of gray.
In from ahead,
Through shell-flashes red,
We shall come down to them, after the Day,
Whistle and crash
Of salvo and volley
Round us and into us as we attack
Light on our target they’ll flash in their folly,
Splitting our ears with shrapnel-crack.
Fire as they will,
We’ll come to them still,
Roar as they may at us—Back—Go Back!
White though the sea
To the shell-splashes foaming,
We shall be there at the death of the Hun.
Only we pray for a star in the gloaming
(Light for torpedoes and none for a gun).
Lord—of Thy Grace
Make it a race,
Over the sea with the night to run.
 NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN

SUSAN HOOKER WHITMAN

in The Kansas City Star

“I T is long since knighthood was in flower,

There are no men today who tower
Above their kind—the knights are dust,
Their names forgot, their good swords rust,”
We idly say. And yet, in truth—
The brave soul has eternal youth,
Like the great lighthouse rising free,
Whose far-flung beams guide ships at sea,
God lifts above his fellow man
A steadfast soul to dare and plan,
A king of men, by right divine,
Who in his forehead bears the sign—
He walks along the city street;
Unknowing, in the fields we meet
A modern knight in whose hand lies
A mighty Nation’s destinies.

Then say no more, the knights are gone;

Honor and Truth and Right live on,
And men today would keep the bridge
Horatius kept—from rocky ridge
Heroic Youth would still fling down
His horse, himself, to save the town.
Columbia calls!
Off with your hats and lift them high,
Our own, our sons are passing by.
 THE SILENT ARMY.

IAN ADANAC

in The Montreal Daily Star

N O bugle is blown, no roll of drums,

No sound of an army marching.
No banners wave high, no battle-cry
Comes from the war-worn fields where they lie,
The blue sky overarching.
The call sounds clearer than the bugle call
From this silent, dreamless army.
“No cowards were we, when we heard the call,
For freedom we grudged not to give our all,”
Is the call from the silent army.

Hushed and quiet and still they lie,

This silent, dreamless army,
While living comrades spring to their side,
And the bugle-call and the battle-cry
Are heard as dreamer and dreamless lie
Under the stars of the arching sky,
The men who have heard from the men who have died
The call of the silent army.
 THE SOURCE OF NEWS

From The Needle

A BSOLUTE knowledge I have none,

But my aunt’s washerwoman’s son
Heard a policeman on his beat
Say to a laborer in the street
That he had a letter just last week,
Written in the finest Greek,
From a Chinese coolie in Timbuctoo,
Who said the niggers in Cuba knew
Of a colored man in a Texas town
Who got it straight from a circus clown,
That a man in Klondike heard the news
From a gang of South American Jews,
About somebody in Bamboo
Who heard a man who claimed he knew
Of a swell society female rake
Whose mother-in-law will undertake
To prove that her husband’s sister’s niece
Has stated in a printed piece
That she has a son who has a friend
Who knows when the war is going to end.
 TO MY SON
A poem, anonymous, sent to the Chicago Evening Post by one whose son’s
regiment was leaving for France.
M Y son, at last the fateful day has come
For us to part. The hours have nearly run.
May God return you safe to land and home;
Yet, what God wills, so may His will be done.

Draw tight the belt about your slender frame;

Flash blue your eyes! Hold high your proud young head!
Today you march in Liberty’s fair name,
To save the line enriched by France’s dead!

I would not it were otherwise. And yet

’Tis hard to speed your marching forth, my son!
’Tis doubly hard to live without regret
For love unsaid, and kindnesses undone.

But would the chance were mine with you to stand

Upon those shores and see our flag unfurled!
To fight on France’s brave, unconquered land
With Liberty’s great sword for all the world!

Beyond the waves, my son, the siren calls,

The sky is black and Fastnet lies abreast;
A signal rocket flings its stars and falls
Across the night to welcome England’s guest.

When mid the scud you see the Cornish lights,

And through the mist you hear faint Devon chimes,
Thank God for memories of those other nights
And days on other ships in happier times.

Perhaps you’ll stand within the pillared nave

And aisles where colored sundust falls, and see
Old Canterbury Church where Becket gave
His life’s best blood for England’s liberty!

Some night you’ll walk, perhaps, on Salisbury plain;

Ab St h th D id’ t till l
 Above Stonehenge the Druid’s stars still sleep,
And on the turf within the circled fane
Beneath the autumn moon still lie the sheep.

And if you march beside some Kentish hedge,

And blackberries hang thick clustered o’er the ways,
Pluck down a branch! Rest by the road’s brown edge;
Eat! Nor forget our last vacation days!

And then the trench in battle-scarred Lorraine;

The town half burned but held in spite of hell;
The bridge twice taken, lost, and won again;
The cratered glacis ripped with mine and shell.

The leafless trees, bare-branched in spite of June;

The sodden road, the desolated plain;
The mateless birds, the season out of tune;
Fair France, at bay, is calling through her pain.

Oh, son! My son! God keep you safe and free—

Our flag and you! But if the hour must come
To choose at last ’twixt self and liberty—
We’ll close our eyes! So let God’s will be done!
 EASTER-EGGS

REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN

From this author’s “Our Navy at Work,” published by the Bobbs-Merrill

Co. In 1917, our Government took over a large number of pleasure-yachts,
fitted them with a few light guns and depth-charges and sent them into
French waters to hunt submarines. They were variously known as “The
Suicide Fleet” and “Easter-Eggs.” Mr. Kauffman spent some time at sea
with them. Permission to reproduce in this book.
N OW, Mr. Wall of Wall St., he built himself a yacht,
And he built that yacht for comfort and for speed;
He didn’t mean that it should go
Beyond a hundred miles or so;
He wanted something made for show,
Where he could drink and feed.

Then Uncle Sam’l went to war and hadn’t any boats,

Or not enough to guard the stormy green,
And so he said to Mr. Wall:
“I’ll take your six-feet-over-all
And set it out to get the call
Upon the submarine.”

“A cruising-fighter? Never!” (The experts chorused that.)

“She’ll sink before she’s half-way out to France”;
But Sam cut out her bathtubs white,
He painted her a perfect fright
And loaded her with dynamite;
Says he: “I’ll take a chance.”

“Good-night!” said Wall of Wall St.; the experts said it, too;
But Uncle Sam was sot and sibylline;
His little plan, it warn’t a josh:
Wall’s boat ’s as dry ’s a mackintosh;
She fights, b’ gum; what’s more, b’ gosh,
She gits the submarine!
 A DIRGE

VICTOR PEROWNE

in The London Times

T HOU art no longer here,
No longer shall we see thy face.
But, in that other place,
Where may be heard
The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the stars;
And the silver bars
Of heaven’s gate
Shine soft and clear:
Thou mayest wait.

No longer shall we see

Thee walking in the crowded streets,
But where the ocean of the Future beats
Against the flood-gates of the Present, swirling to this earth,

Another birth
Thou mayest have;
Another Arcady
May thee receive.
Not here thou dost remain,
Thou art gone far away,
Where, at the portals of the day,
The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng,

While time looks on,

And seraphs stand
Choiring an endless strain
On either hand.

Thou canst return no more;

Not as the happy time of spring
Comes after winter burgeoning
On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead.

Our tears we shed

In vain, for thou
Dost pace another shore,
Untroubled now.
 THE WOMAN’S GAME

Authorship not known

W AS there ever a game we did not share,

Brother of mine?
Or a day when I did not play you fair,
Brother of mine?
“As good as a boy,” you used to say,
And I was as eager for the fray,
And as loath to cheat or to run away,
Brother of mine!

You are playing the game that is straight and true,

Brother of mine,
And I’d give my soul to stand next to you,
Brother of mine.
The spirit, indeed, is still the same;
I would not shrink from the battle’s flame,
Yet here I stay—at the woman’s game,
Brother of mine!

If the last price must needs be paid,

Brother of mine,
You will go forward, unafraid,
Brother of mine.
Death can so small a part destroy,
You will have known the fuller joy—
Ah! would that I had been born a boy,
Brother of mine!
 A FLEMISH VILLAGE

H. A.

in London Spectator

G ONE is the spire that slept for centuries,

Whose image in the water, calm and low,
Was mingled with the lilies green and snow,
And lost itself in river mysteries.
The church lies broken near the fallen spire;
For here, among these old and human things
Death swept along the street with feet of fire,
And went upon his way with moaning wings.
Above the cluster of these homes forlorn,
Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled,
O’er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn,
The wounded saints look out to see their fold.

And silence follows fast, no evening peace,

But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes,
Haunting the slender branches of the trees,
And settling low upon the listless plains.
 FRANCE

CAPT. JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON

in the Chicago Tribune

From the French of Armentier Ohanian
Permission to reproduce in this book

I WAS an exile from my own country and wandered over

the breast of the world seeking another country.
And I came into a land where there was only a long
spring and a long autumn, where they did not know the
deadly heats of our summers or the mortal colds of our
mountains. Among the vines and sunny fields I saw the
people of this land at work, ever young of soul, smiling,
loving, and kindly.
I asked, “What is the name of this happy place?”
And the answer was, “France the voluptuous.”
I came to towns of splendid monuments, of harmonious
buildings, of proud triumphal arches of the past, and above
always I saw the spires of great cathedrals stretching
toward the sky, as if to seize upon the feet of God.
I asked, “What is the name of this marvelous land?”
And the answer was, “France the glorious.”
I advanced again, when I was struck by the red color of
a large river.... It was a river of warm blood that rolled
down from afar in thick and heavy waves. I advanced
again. Before me dark clouds of smoke hid the endless sky
above huge fields of warriors in battle; when these died
smiling at death others took their places, singing.
I asked, “What is the name of this chivalrous land?”
And the answer was, “France the courageous.”
At last I came to an immense city, of which I saw
neither the beginning nor the end, a city full of sumptuous
palaces, of parks, and fountains. The sun glistened on the
marble of the streets and kissed the serene, resigned faces
of women clothed in black. The chimes of churches filled
the air with solemn sounds, and words, until then unknown
to me, “Te Deum,” came from the throats of thousands of
thousands.
With respect I asked, “What is the name of this land that
mourns?”
And the answer was, “France the victorious.”
I kissed the earth of this land and said, “I have found my
country, who was an exile.”
 THE CLERK

B. H. M. HETHERINGTON

in The London Bookman

P ERCHED upon an office stool, neatly adding figures,

With cuffs gone shiny and a pen behind his ear;
Deep in Liabilities, Goods and Double Entry,
So he worked from year to year.

Diligent and careful, hedged about with figures,

Given soul and body to discount and per cent;
Bounded by the columns of Purchase Book and Journal,
Soberly his moments went.

Now his pen has ceased from adding rows of figures,

Ceased from ruling ledgers and entering amounts:
Clad in sodden khaki, with a gun in Flanders
He is balancing accounts.
 POILU

STEUART M. EMERY, A. E. F.

in The Stars and Stripes

The traditional friendship between the United States and France was
recemented under the fire of German guns. In France they celebrated our
Fourth of July; in this country, we celebrated the Fourteenth of July, the
anniversary of the fall of the Bastile. Yank and Poilu are brothers in war,
don’t mind the languages. The inextinguishable humor of France never
showed more quaintly than in that word, “Poilu.” It means “unshaven.”
More freely, “a man who needs a shave.” A whimsical comment upon the
French soldier’s way of letting his beard grow while he is in the field. Those
boys were like the English and our own. They smiled at misery. They were
good old sports, bless ’em!
Y OU’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap
And your war worn, faded uniform of blue,
With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to flap
And your rifle that is most as big as you.
You were made for love and laughter, for good wine and merry song,
Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray,
And the road today you travel stretches rough and red and long,
Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay.

Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry half the while,
And your days and nights are racking in the line,
There is nothing under heaven that can take away your smile,
Oh, so wistful, and so patient and so fine.
You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd
To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout,
Still, we’d hate to have to face you when the bugle’s sounding loud
And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out.

You’re devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such an air

O’er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run,
And quite often you are noticed in a beard that’s full of hair,
But that heart of yours is always twenty-one.
No, you do not “parlee English,” and you find it very hard,
For you want to chum with us and words you lack;
So you pat us on the shoulder and say, “Nous sommes camarades.”
We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back!
 AUSTRALIA’S MEN

DOROTHEA MACKELLAR

Miss Mackellar is the daughter of Sir Charles Mackellar, Chairman of the

Bank of New South Wales. Acknowledgment is due Dr. George Cooke-
Adams, formerly an officer in the Australian naval forces, through whose
courtesy her verses are presented here.

T HERE are some that go for love of a fight

And some for love of a land,
And some for a dream of the world set free
Which they barely understand.

A dream of the world set free from Hate—

But splendidly, one and all,
Danger they drink as ’twere wine of Life
And jest as they reel and fall.

Clean aims, rare faculties, strength and youth,

They have poured them freely forth
For the sake of the sun-steeped land they left
And the far green isle in the north.

What can we do to be worthy of them,

Now hearts are breaking for pride?
Give comfort at least to the wounded men
And the kin of the man that died.
 TANKS

O. C. A. CHILD
Y ES, back at home I used to drive a tram;
And Sammy, there, he was a driver, too—
He used to ride his racer—did Sir Sam;
While pokey London streets was all I knew.

But now, His Nibs and I, of equal rank,

Are chummy as the paper and the wall,
Each tooling of a caterpillar tank,
Each waiting on the blest old bugle call.

Say! Tanks are sport—when you get used to them,

They’re like a blooming railroad, self-contained;
They lay their tracks, as you might say—pro tem,
And pick ’em up, and there’s good distance gained.

They roar across rough country like a gale,

They lean against a house and push it down,
They’re like a baby fortress under sail,
And antic as a three-ring circus clown.

Sam says they’re slow. They may seem so to him—

They can’t show fancy mile-a-minute stuff,
But when they charge, in armored fighting trim,
You bet the Germans find ’em fast enough!

Now Sam and I are waiting, side by side,

To steam across yon farm-land in the night;
We’ll take their blamed barbed wire in our strides
And stamp a German trench line out of sight.
A HYMN OF FREEDOM

MARY PERRY KING

in Collier’s Weekly
Permission to reproduce in this book
“U NFURL the flag of Freedom,
Fling far the bugle blast!
There comes a sound of marching
From out the mighty past.
Let every peak and valley
Take up the valiant cry:
Where, beautiful as morning,
Our banner cuts the sky.

Free born to peace and justice,

We stand to guard and save
The liberty of manhood,
The faith our fathers gave.
Then soar aloft, Old Glory,
And tell the waiting breeze
No law but Right and Mercy
Shall rule the Seven Seas.

No hate is in our anger,

No vengeance in our wrath,
We hold the line of freedom
Across the tyrant’s path.
Where’er oppression vaunteth
We loose the sword once more
To stay the feet of conquest,
And pray an end of war.
 SWAN SONGS
More than all the others put together, the war poems of
Alan Seeger, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae, and Lieut.
Rupert Brooke, have touched and thrilled the heart of
America. They are quiet, earnest, yet more powerful than
trumpet blasts, for they rise triumphant from great depths,
and as they sing, exalt.
Most familiar is our own Alan Seeger’s “I Have a
Rendezvous with Death.” He was studying in Paris when
the war broke out. In the third week he enlisted in the
Foreign Legion. Two arduous years later he was called on
higher service. July 4, 1916, his squad was caught in an
assault on the village of Belloy-en-Santerre, where the
Germans received them with the fire of six machine guns.
Seeger was severely wounded, but went forward with the
others, and helped take the place. Next morning he died.
He had kept the tryst.

Alan Seeger was a New York boy. He was born in that

city June 22, 1888. In his short life he had written some
twenty poems. This was his last. It was written in camp,
shortly before his call came:
 I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH[1]

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple blossoms fill the air.
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath;
It may be I shall pass him, still,
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear.
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true.
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Lieut. Col. John McCrae was a Canadian physician who

served in the South African war as an artilleryman. He was
on his way to Canada when the war began in 1914, and
immediately upon landing he entered the Val Cartier
training camp and was commissioned a Captain. Later he
joined the McGill Hospital corps and went with it to
France, where he rose to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel,
and died in service, January 28, 1918.
His poem, “In Flanders’ Fields,” was written on the
Flanders front in the Spring of 1915. Its inspiration is thus
explained by Sergeant Charles E. Bisset, of the 19th
Battalion, 1st Brigade, Canadian Infantry:
“On the Flanders front in the early Spring of 1915, when
the war had settled down to trench fighting, two of the
most noticeable features of the field were, first, the
luxuriant growth of red poppies appearing among the
graves of the fallen soldiers, and second, that only one
species of bird—the larks—remained on the field during
the fighting. As soon as the cannonading ceased, they
would rise in the air, singing.”
 IN FLANDERS’ FIELDS

I N Flanders’ fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead! Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders’ fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands we throw
The Torch. Be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders’ fields.

Rupert Brooke, a brilliant, impassioned young

Englishman, was one of the first to take arms when Great
Britain went to war. He died in the Dardanelles expedition,
April 23, 1915. A few days before, he had sent from the
Ægean Sea to the English-speaking peoples the poem by
which he is best known:
 THE SOLDIER[2]

I F I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed,
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Lieutenant Brooke was a rare poet, having a serene

faith, a knowledge of life as continuous. His bent of
thought, the manner of his feeling, shine most clearly in
this sonnet:
 NOT WITH VAIN TEARS

N OT with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun,

We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread
Those dusty highroads of the aimless dead,
Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run
Down some close-covered byway of the air,
Some low, sweet alley between wind and wind,
Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find
Some whispering, ghost-forgotten nook, and there
Spend in pure converse our eternal day;
Think each in each, immediately wise;
Learn all we lacked before; hear, know and say
What this tumultuous body now denies;
And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;
And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

All of Rupert Brooke’s work has been collected and

issued, a rich though slender sheaf. The book is fervently
commended to people whose own souls are in the key that
responds to notes so spiritually fine and clear as those he
sounds in all his lines.

“But a Short Time to Live” was written by Serg’t Leslie

Coulson, whose “little hour” came to an end at Arras, in
France, October 7, 1916:
 BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE

O UR little hour—how swift it flies—

When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dreams, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower.
The gods—they do not give us long—
One little hour.
*****
Our little hour—how soon it dies;
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.

These songs, with others that have lilted so bravely, so

gravely, through the world’s most bitter years of travail,
will live long in literature, with many more as strong or as
sweet. Had all the writers lived, we would have had a
wealth of splendid gifts from them, especially, maybe,
from that “poor bird-hearted singer of a day,” Francis
Ledwidge, who fell in battle in Flanders, July 31, 1917.
Ledwidge was discovered by Lord Dunsany, himself a
soldier-poet and a patron of poets. He was lance corporal
in Lord Dunsany’s company in the 5th Battalion of the
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