Hello, Boys! Part 5

Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight, Or whether you trundle a truck, Just tackle your job and do it right: Don't pa.s.s the buck.

The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!

Deep into war's mire and muck.

If you want to put it again on its track, Don't shift your load on another man's back: Don't pa.s.s the buck.

SONG OF THE AVIATOR

You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed, You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean, You may rush afar in your touring car, Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping - But you never will know the joy of motion Till you rise up over the earth some day, And soar like an eagle, away--away.

High and higher above each spire, Till lost to sight is the tallest steeple, With the winds you chase in a valiant race, Looping, swooping, where mountains are grouping, Hailing them comrades, in place of people.

Oh! vast is the rapture the birdman knows, As into the ether he mounts and goes.

He is over the sphere of human fear; He has come into touch with things supernal.

At each man's gate death stands await; And dying, flying, were better than lying In sick-beds, crying for life eternal.

Better to fly half-way to G.o.d Than to burrow too long like a worm in the sod.

THE STEVEDORES

We are the army stevedores, l.u.s.ty and virile and strong, We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long.

We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal; While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below like a mole.

But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight!

And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right.

We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers.

We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears; We flung them away on the winds of fate, at the very first call of our land, And each of us offered a willing heart and the strength of a brawny hand.

We are the army stevedores, and work as we must and may, The cross of honour will never be ours to proudly wear away.

But the men at the Front could never be there, And the battles could not be won, If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine And left their work undone.

Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn't you!

We are the army stevedores--give us our due!

A SONG OF HOME

I am singing a song to the boys to-day, A song of the home that is far away.

And I know that an echo the word is waking In many a heart that is secretly aching, Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home.

But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove, And it flies straight into the hearts you love.

You picture the days of your youthful joys, The old home circle, the girls and boys You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure, When life danced on to a lilting measure; Each scene you treasure, thinking of Home, dear Home.

And here is a thought that is sweet and true - The ones you long for are longing for you.

You picture the day when the war is done, The duty accomplished, the victory won, And over the billows our ships go leaping, Into our beautiful harbour sweeping, And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home.

On the walls of your heart you must hang with care This beautiful picture, framed in prayer.

Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail For that glorious day when our ships shall sail; Where the G.o.ddess of Liberty lights the water To guide you back from the fields of slaughter, Fair Freedom's daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home.

So hold your vision, and work and pray, As you dream of the Home that is far away.

THE SWAN OF DIJON

I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast Was at its loudest; when there was no sound From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past, Or rattle of their wagons in the street.

When every engine whistle would repeat Persistently, with meaning tense, profound, 'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring Remnants of men back as war's offering.'

And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene; But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by Where war was not; a little lake whereon Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan, Majestic and imposing, yet serene.

I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white, Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid While silver fountains for his pleasure played.

Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part To rest a tired heart.

VEILS

Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and black, Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair, But, like a rose touched by untimely frost, Showing the blighting marks of sorrow's track.

Veils, veils, veils everywhere. They tell the cost Of man-made war. They show the awful toll Paid by the hearts of women for the crimes, The age-old crimes by selfishness ill-named 'Justice' and 'Honour' and 'The call of Fate' - High words men use to hide their low estate.

About the joy and beauty of this world A long black veil is furled.

Even the face of Heaven itself seems lost Behind a veil. It takes a fervent soul In these tense times To visualise a G.o.d so long defamed By insolent lips, that send out prayers, and prate Of G.o.d's collaboration in dark deeds, So foul they put to shame the fiends of h.e.l.l.

Yet One DOES dwell In Secret Centres of the Universe - The Mighty Maker; and He hears and heeds The still small voice of soulful, selfless faith; And He is lifting now the veil of death, So long down-dropped between those worlds and earth.

Yea! He is giving faith a great new birth By letting echoes from the hidden places Where dwell our dead, fall on love's listening ear.

Hearken, and you shall hear The messages which come from those star-s.p.a.ces!

That is the reason why G.o.d let so many die; That the vast hordes of suffering hearts might wake Mighty vibrations, and the silence break Between the neighbouring worlds, and lift the veil 'Twixt life on earth, and life Beyond. All hail To great Jehovah, Who has given life Eternal, everlasting, after strife!

Veils, long black veils, you shall be bridal white.

Eyes, blind with tears, you shall receive your sight, And see your dead alive in Worlds of Light.

IN FRANCE I SAW A HILL

In France I saw a hill--a gentle slope Rising above old tombs to greet the gleam From soft spring skies. Beyond these skies dwells hope, But those green graves bespeak a broken dream.