The Bee's Bayonet Part 3

_Some_ drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!

That's putting proper English on, you see!

And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up To easy putting distance from the cup.

Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!

He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out; And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks, A new low record for the Piedmont Links.

See with what confidence he wends his way The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!

The Gallery, expectant, follows thru To see the Champion go down in _two_.

Then to the ball he makes his last address, (The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess) And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.

Alas for human frailty! See it flit Across the green into the sandy pit!

The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!

While he invoked the Deity in prayer.

And then he played his third, but topped the sphere, The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

A halo hung around the Stranger's head It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead, For what he said, in type is not displayed Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!

The Player loses all his self-control And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din, When Caddie trails the ball and _kicks it in_!

Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks The weary Golfers on their inward treks; And close beside, beneath the porch's shade, The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade And other cheering drinks, within the law; But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say, If serving one's country deserves any praise: Two years at the front, then an arm shot away!

And this is my "cross" in reward for those days.

But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains: Until France is free we must fight: every one!

Of course I'll go back to the trenches again: My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound; Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men Who fill up the sh.e.l.l-holes like moles in the ground.

I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top, The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm, With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop: For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm!

France needs every son, be they crippled or strong, To rid our fair land of the murderous horde: So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along!

And fight till the Glory of France is restored!

Our women are outraged, our children enslaved; Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath!

We can _never_ turn back, so be it engraved On our spears and escutcheons,--_Vengeance or Death_!

WAR

Down by the village runs the stream Once placid, now a raging flood: Behold it, by the day's last gleam Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.

The Chapel bell has tolled its last; The trees are bare, tho this be Spring: Death's shroud is on the village cast, And Ruin reigns o'er everything.

A grist of carnage clogs the Mill, And sh.e.l.ls have razed the quondam homes: Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill, Whose cellars are but catacombs.

Beyond the village, Refugees Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief, Or, _ga.s.sed_, implore on bended knees For death, despairing of relief.

With bayonets and faces set The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led, Present a gruesome parapet,-- Thus, _still defending_, tho they're dead.

SONG OF THE SAMSONS

We are Samsons, Biff! Boom! Bang!

Here to pot the Potsdam Gang.

If Bad Bill is found in Metz, We'll not vouch for what he gets!

If in Essen he is caught, Good Night! Kultur, Him und Gott!

Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint When he finds his Empire _ain't_!

To our Sweethearts we said "Knit,"

We must go and do our Bit!

How d'ye do, Pierrot? Pierrette?

We are friends of Lafayette!

Wait until our Drive begins,-- Bill, you'll suffer for your sins!

Sick 'em, Prince! We'll tie the fuse Onto Frederich Wilhelm's shoes.

When we occupy Cologne-- Phew! How big and strong you've grown!

We will paint each shop and lodge With bright red in camouflage!

Then to Carlsbad we will swing; Need the baths like everything!

Frauleins leave your fears behind; We don't war on womankind!

We are filled with fire and zeal: Watch us pick the locks to Kiel!

We are coming to our own In Lorraine across the Rhone!

When our Flocks of Eaglets fly-- Dunder! Blitzen! Bill, Good-bye!

Beaks of Steel and Claws of Lead-- Sun eclipsed! The Geezer's dead.

CHORUS

O, you U Boats, That for U!

We slipped thru you; How d'y' do?

Hindenberg? Ach, let him rant!

He won't stop us _'cause he can't_!

Zepps and Taubs are falling down; Butcher Bill will lose his crown; Watch your step, you Horrid Hun, You can't _goosestep_ when you _run_!

Hooray for the crimson, white and blue!

'Rah for Old Glory! _Chapeau bas vous!_ 'Rah for the Tri-Color! We're at home In _la belle_ France by the _eau de_ Somme; Hooray for our Allies true and brave!

We'll all sweep thru like a tidal wave Over the _top_ in a mighty Drive-- And never stop while the HUNDS survive!

SIX DAYS