Over Here Part 7

His Santa Claus

He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy, An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy; Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head, And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed, But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance; This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.

His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay; Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play; This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands.

He is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance, But he that was his Santa Claus is in a trench in France.

Somewhere in France this Christmas Eve a soldier brave will be, And all that night in fancy he will trim a Christmas tree; And all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had When he was good St. Nicholas unto a certain lad.

And he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance, Will find his stocking empty just because he serves in France.

Show the Flag

Show the flag and let it wave As a symbol of the brave; Let it float upon the breeze As a sign for each who sees That beneath it, where it rides, Loyalty to-day abides.

Show the flag and signify That it wasn't born to die; Let its colors speak for you That you still are standing true, True in sight of G.o.d and man To the work that flag began.

Show the flag that all may see That you serve humanity.

Let it whisper to the breeze That comes singing through the trees That whatever storms descend You'll be faithful to the end.

Show the flag and let it fly, Cheering every pa.s.ser-by--Men that may have stepped aside, May have lost their old-time pride, May behold it there, and then Consecrate themselves again.

Show the flag! The day is gone When men blindly hurry on Serving only G.o.ds of gold; Now the spirit that was cold Warms again to courage fine.

Show the flag and fall in line!

The Honor Roll

The boys upon the honor roll, G.o.d bless them all, I pray!

G.o.d watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day.

We've stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows, Our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes.

Oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true, The little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew; We thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games, And then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names.

We missed their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday We had them here to walk with us, and now they've marched away.

And here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll; The absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll.

So quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change, One day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange, And when we questioned where they were, the st.u.r.diest of us all, We saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall.

The laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth No longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing sombre truth.

No longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls, For they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls.

The Princess Pats

A touch of the plain and the prairie, A bit of the Motherland, too; A strain of the fur-trapper wary, A blend of the old and the new; A bit of the pioneer splendor That opened the wilderness' flats, A touch of the home-lover, tender, You'll find in the boys they call Pats.

The glory and grace of the maple, The strength that is born of the wheat, The pride of a stock that is staple, The bronze of a midsummer heat; A blending of wisdom and daring, The best of a new land, and that's The regiment gallantly bearing The neat little t.i.tle of Pats.

A bit of the man who has neighbored With mountains and forests and streams, A touch of the man who has labored To model and fashion his dreams; The strength of an age of clean living, Of right-minded fatherly chats, The best that a land could be giving Is there in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the Pats.

July the Fourth, 1917

Time was the cry went round the world: America for freedom speaks, A new flag is to-day unfurled, An eagle on the mountain shrieks, A king is failing on his throne, A race of men defies his power!

And no one could have guessed or known The burden of that splendid hour.

A bell rang out that summer day And men and women stood and heard; That tongue of bra.s.s had more to say Than could be spoken by a word.

It spoke the thoughts of honest men, It whispered Destiny's intents And rang a warning loudly then To Kings of all the continents.

The old bell in its holy loft Where pigeons nest, has ceased to swing And yet through many a day and oft A weary people hear it sing.

That hour long years ago, when first America for freedom fought, The bonds of slavery were burst: That hour began the reign of thought.

Here comes another summer day: America is on the sea, America has dared to say That other people shall be free.

No selfish stain her banner mars, Her flag, for truth and right, unfurled, With every stripe and all its stars Still speaks its message to the world

Out where the soldiers fight for men, Out where, for others, heroes die, Out where they storm the Tyrant's den, The Starry Banner lights the sky.

And once again the cry goes out That brings the flush of hope to cheeks Grown pale by bitter war and doubt: "America for Freedom speaks."

Spring in the Trenches

It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around; The sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war were through.

But it's tramp, tramp, tramp, And it's never look behind, And when you see a stranger's kids, Pretend that you are blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate.

And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil, With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil.

But it's fight, fight, fight, And it's charge at double-quick; A soldier thinking thoughts of home Is one more soldier sick.

Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood.

Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me.

But it's shoot, shoot, shoot, And when the bullets hiss, Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, For weeping soldiers miss.