War Rhymes by Wayfarer Part 12

Though David's sceptre still remains With Judah's royal line, On Leah's sons are b.l.o.o.d.y stains, And Ephriam's drunk with wine; Blind Sampson, by Delilah's shears, Is made grind Dagon's corn, But only in a thousand years Is there a Moses born.

RELIABILITY

Britannia's word was spoken The feeble to defend, That promise was not broken, She kept it to the end.

Britannia's word is good, Tried, tested, proved in blood, In every land, 'mid snow or sand, She for the truth has stood.

Britannia borrowed millions In thrifty days of old, Now, when she asks for billions, She always gets the gold.

Britannia's note is good, She signs it with her blood, Each promise made, she fully paid, Let cost be what it would.

Britannia's sons are falling, The proud, the strong, the gay, They heard their mother calling, They would not say her, nay.

Britannia's sword is good, She draws it when she should, The flag that flies 'neath all the skies A thousand years has stood.

THE McLEANS

The heather's on fire. McLeans from the byre, The hamlet, the city, the wide open plains, The lairds and rapscallions fill up the battalions With blue blood, with true blood, the loyal McLeans.

They hear the drums rattle, they rush to the battle, (Each man in the clan a base coward disdains), They die in their glory, the trenches are gory With red blood, with shed blood of gallant McLeans.

Afar on the heather, where hame folk foregather, The pibroch is wailing a dirge for the slain, The women are weeping, their lane vigils keeping, Sair, sair, are the hearts in the clan o' McLean.

But mony will stick it, till Kaiser Bill's lickit, And doontrodden people get back a' their ain, Then Maids will stop greeting, for soon they'll be meeting The bonnie brave lads o' the clan o' McLean.

FARMER JOHN SPEAKS HIS MIND

May, 1917

Those fellows down in parliament Have kicked up such a fuss, That now we seem election bent To clean up all the muss.

The Grits are sharpening their swords To give the Tories fits, While they, with scorching bitter words Denounce the faithless Grits.

All out of doors is fresh and green, But no more green than we Who help to run the Grit machine, Or bow the Tory knee.

We hear the strident party call In words no one believes; The Liberals are traitors all, The Tories all are thieves.

The birds are singing in the trees, Old Summer's back at last, The lilacs scent the morning breeze, The crops are growing fast; Why should we leave these peaceful scenes, And don our vests and coats, To hear those chaps who spilled the beans Slangwhanging for our votes?

If we give heed to every tale Told when the campaign's hot, The Tories all should be in jail, The Grits should all be shot.

Let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats, The politicians shun, Let's grow more beans and wheat and oats, And help defeat the Hun.

WHEN THE GAME ISN'T FAIR

As we struggle up life's hillside Where the road is hard and long, Weak, discouraged, tired, lonely, And everything gone wrong.

When we see some men refusing Their allotted load to bear, While their brother's back is breaking, Then we know the game's not fair.

When we see some men grow wealthy, While their brothers die in France, We rebel at the injustice, And demand an even chance; When we see some children hungry, With no decent clothes to wear, And some other stuffed and pampered, Then we know the game's not fair.

When we have to pay high taxes On our little wooden shack, Though the mortgage isn't settled And the interest is back, When the rich man's stately mansion, Doesn't pay its proper share, And he lies about his income, Then we know the game's not fair.

When we read in all the papers How our boys are strafing Fritz, Throwing bombs into his trenches For to blow him all to bits, When we think of him that started This vile war, then we declare If the Kaiser goes unpunished We shall know the game's not fair.

HEINIE'S HOLLER

Britty soon now fife years vill pe done Since ve march into Belgium von day, But since den some beeg rifers have run Troo de pridges, I tink all de vay, Den already de tings seemed so blain, Ven ve shtart oudt to lick de whole vorld Ve vas sure dat us Shermans vould reign Shoost verefer our flag vas unfurled.

For to see dat some tings can't pe done All dose Junker man's heads vas too tick, Und, inshtead of a blace in de sun, Ve haf got, vot you call, armyshtick.

Vot dot armyshtick baper's aboudt I can't get troo dis headpiece of mine But dose fellers dot von wrote it oudt, Und us fellers dat lost had to sign.

Shoost so soon vas dat Armyshtick made Den dose allies dey run de whole show, For already deir plans vas all laid Ven ve back into Shermany go.

Dere vas fellers from England und France, Und Yankees, Italians und j.a.ps, Mit some hoboes dat all get a chance From some blaces not marked on de maps.

For six months now dey talk und dey shmoke, Mit no Shermans at all in de game Und dey tink up von pully goot shoke, Den dey tell us to write down our name.

Dey vould take all our money und ships, Und dose blace in de sun dat ve got.

But we ain't handing oudt no free trips, Und won't sign no beace dreaty like dot.

WHAT WE WON

Was it for this, I want to know, We saw our boys to Flanders go; For this that Belgium suffered so, That France withstood the ruthless foe, And said "No further shalt thou go,"

That Serbia was plunged in woe, And women wept along the Po; That Poles were herded to and fro, And Anzacs died at Gallipo; That Britain let her plans all go, Laid bare her breast, and took the blow, And held the seas 'neath sun and snow Danger above and death below; That Uncle Sam, though rather slow To sc.r.a.p the doctrine of Monroe, Got busy at the final show?

For years of blood and tears, although We boast the Kaiser's overthrow, The net results seem these, I trow, That profiteers pile up the dough, And gather where they did not sow, That scythes of death fresh harvests mow, Where Bolshevists fierce whiskers grow, And no Hun yet has eaten crow; That Wild Sinn Feiners, fallen low, Plan proud Britannia's overthrow, Save these the world can little show, But wooden crosses, row on row.

In Flanders fields, where poppies blow.

THE HOME COMING

July 1st, 1919