Over Here Part 15

Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves--to-day.

'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands-- Not distant lands-- Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it---not the foe; If it shall fall, We, first of all, Shall have to strike the blow.

The Unsettled Scores

The men are talking peace at 'ome, but 'ere we're talking fight, There's many a little debt we've got to square; A sniper sent a bullet through my bunkie's 'ead last night, And 'is body's lying somewhere h'over there.

Oh, we 'ear a lot of rumors that the war is h'almost through But Hi'm thinking that it's only arf begun; Every soldier in the trenches has a little debt that's due And Hi'm telling you it's not a money one.

We 'ave 'eard the bullets whistle and we've 'card the shrapnel sing And we've listened to a dying comrade's pleas, And we've 'eard about the comfort that the days of peace will bring, But we've debts that can't be settled h'over seas.

They that 'aven't slept in trenches, 'aven't brothered with the worms, 'Aven't 'ad a bunkie slaughtered at their side, May some day get together and arrange some sort of terms, But it isn't likely we'll be satisfied.

There are debts we want to settle, 'and to 'and, and face to face, There are one or two Hi've promised that Hi'd square; And Hi cannot 'old my 'ead up, 'ere or in the other place, Till Hi've settled for my bunkie, lying there.

Warriors

We all are warriors with sin. Crusading knights, we come to earth With spotless plumes and s.h.i.+ning s.h.i.+elds to joust with foes and prove our worth.

The world is but a battlefield where strong and weak men fill the lists, And some make war with humble prayers, and some with swords and some with fists.

And some for pleasure or for peace forsake their purposes and goals And barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp, their knightly souls.

We're all enlisted soldiers here, in service for the term called life And each of us in some grim way must bear his portion of the strife.

Temptations everywhere a.s.sail. Men do not rise by fearing sin, Nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed, unscratched, the crown shall win.

When wrongs are trampling mortals down and rank injustice stalks about, Real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or puts the foes to rout.

'Tis not the new and s.h.i.+ning blade that marks the soldier of the field, His glory is his broken sword, his pride the scars upon his s.h.i.+eld; The crimson stains that sin has left upon his soul are tongues that speak The victory of new found strength by one who yesterday was weak.

And meaningless the spotless plume, the s.h.i.+ning blade that goes through life And quits this naming battlefield without one evidence of strife.

We all are warriors with sin, we all are knights in life's crusades, And with some form of tyranny, we're sent to earth to measure blades.

The courage of the soul must gleam in conflict with some fearful foe, No man was ever born to life its luxuries alone to know.

And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward garb unsoiled And fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his soul decayed and spoiled.

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye Or a legless form I see, I breathe my thanks to my G.o.d on High For His watchful care o'er me.

And I say to myself, as the cripple goes Half stumbling on his way: I may brag and boast, but that brother knows Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den Puffing one of my many pipes That I've served with all of my fellow men The glorious Stars and Stripes.

Then I see a troop in the faded blue And a few in the dusty gray, And I have to laugh at the deeds I do For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire, The sport of the blazing sun, Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire As the tides of battle run, And I fancy I hear their piteous calls For merciful death, and then The cannons cease and the darkness falls, And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death, Yet the Reaper spurns their cries, And it seems his jest to leave them breath For their pitiful pleas and sighs.

And I am here in my cozy room In touch with the joys of life, I am miles away from the fields of doom And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid, Nor suffered real pangs of thirst, I have marched with life in its best parade And never have seen its worst.

In the flowers of ease I have ever basked, And I think as the Flag I see How much of service from some it's asked, How little of toil from me.

A Father's Thoughts

Because I am his father, they Expect me to put grief away; Because I am a man, and rough And sometimes short of speech and gruff, The women folks at home believe His absence doesn't make me grieve; But how I felt, they little know, The day I smiled and let him go.

They little know the dreams I had Long cherished for my st.u.r.dy lad; They little guess the wrench it meant That day when off to war he went; They little know the tears I checked While standing, smiling and erect; They never heard my smothered sigh When it was time to say good-bye.

"What does his father think and say?"

The neighbors ask from day to day.

"Oh, he's a man," they answer then.

"And you know how it is with men.

But little do they ever say, They do not feel the self-same way; He seems indifferent and grim And yet he's very proud of him."

Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart, Be brave enough to play the part, Let not the grief in you be shown, Keep all your loneliness unknown, To you the women folks must turn For comfort when their sorrows burn.

You must not at this time reveal The pain and anguish that you feel.

Oh, tongue, be silent through the years, And eyes, keep back always the tears, And let them never see or know My hidden weight of grief and woe.

Though every golden dream I had Was centered in my little lad, Alone my sorrow I must bear.

They must not know how much I care.

Though women folks may talk and weep, A man, unseen, his grief must keep, And hide behind his smile and pride The loneliness that dwells inside.

And so, from day to day, I go, Playing the part of man, although Beneath the rough outside and grim, I think and dream and pray for him.

The Waiter at the Camp

The officers' friend is the waiter at camp.

In the night air 'twas cold and was bitterly damp, And they asked me to dine, which I readily did, For at dining I've talents I never keep hid.

Then a bright-eyed young fellow came in with the meat, And straightway the troop of us started to eat.

I silently noticed that young fellow wait At each officer's side 'til he'd filled up his plate; I was startled a bit at the very first look By the size of the helping each officer took, And I thought as I sat there among them that night Of the army's effect on a man's appet.i.te.

The waiter at last brought the platter to me And modestly proper I started to be.

A small piece of meat then I gracefully took; The young fellow stood there and gave me a look.