War Rhymes by Wayfarer Part 8

NURSE CAVELL

November, 1915

This world has spots made holy By deeds or lives of love, Has shrines where high and lowly Alike, their hearts may prove; This age, when faith might falter Mid shriek of shot and sh.e.l.l, Has added one more altar, The grave of Nurse Cavell.

She cared for sick and dying, Knew neither friend nor foe, She spent her strength in trying To heal a neighbor's woe.

For deeds by love inspired The Kaiser's vengeance fell On form so frail and tired, Heroic Nurse Cavell.

What though the Prussian kultur Now threatened her with death; She met the screaming vulture In simple, quiet faith, "I am an English woman, I love my country well, But must not hate a foeman,"

Said kindly Nurse Cavell.

She faced the guns with even, Calm, fearless, English eyes, And then, her foes forgiven, Made willing sacrifice; Thus, at the midnight hour, In Prussian prison cell, Crushed by a tyrant's power, Died Christlike Nurse Cavell.

But when no more war legions In battles fierce are hurled, When, to remotest regions, Peace reigns throughout the world; Where'er beyond the waters The British peoples dwell Mothers will tell their daughters The tale of Nurse Cavell.

'TWAS EVER THUS

November, 1916

O preacher, prophet, martyr, sage, Whose message falls on heedless ears, Bethink that unrepentant age When Noah preached for six score years; See Israel to Baal bowed, The persecuting Pharisee, And all the loaves and fishes crowd Beside the sea of Galilee.

O patriot of humble birth, With heart to help a fellow man, To reconstruct the things of earth Upon a n.o.bler, wiser plan; The curse that mars the lowly born Will dog your footsteps till your death, The proud Judeans' words of scorn, "No good thing comes from Nazareth."

O mother, when your son lies dead, You hate this cruel world of blood, You pay the price, with grief bowed head, The age-old price of motherhood.

'Twas thus Eve mourned o'er Abel's loss, Naomi grieved in tents of Shem, 'Twas thus she wept beside the cross Who bore a son in Bethlehem.

O soldier with the shattered breast, Beside the sh.e.l.l-swept Flanders road, The One who gives the weary rest Knows all the burden of your load.

The anguished thirst, the bitter pain, A Father's face He could not see, The hate of man, sin's awful stain, He bore them all on Calvary.

EGO

The ego of the human race, The sordid love of self, We see it in life's hurried chase, The grafter's greed for pelf.

The horror of the battle field, The killed, the maimed, the blind, The beaten foe, too proud to yield, The ego of mankind.

The ego of the human race, The poison in our blood, The lying tongue, the double face, Justice and Truth withstood.

The heavy task, the scanty pay, The beggar with his bone, The rich young man who went away, The king upon his throne.

The ego of the human race, The subtle serpent's lie No toilsome years can e'er efface, "Ye shall not surely die."

Eve still by serpent's word beguiled, The curse on Ham that fell, Poor outcast Hagar's starving child, Cities where Lot might dwell.

The ego of the human race, The toil each day brings in, The idlers in the market place, The sorrow and the sin; Bequeathed from pre-historic sire, In Turk and Teuton still, The ape's inordinate desire, The tiger's l.u.s.t to kill.

FREEDOM

We're fighting now for liberty Where'er our armies are, We wouldn't want our king to be A Kaiser, or a Czar.

We want no rabbi with his book, No priest in sable stole, For priest and rabbi ne'er can brook The freedom of the soul.

We must be free, to work, or play, Or loaf, just when we like, And if we get too little pay, Be free to go on strike: And if, perchance, we gain our goal, And wealth to us should come, We must be free to take our toll, From workman's scanty crumb.

We must be free to hit the booze That steals our children's bread, The cash that ought to buy them shoes, Pour down our necks instead.

We must be free to come and go; No Russ nor Hun are we, There's nothing grander here below Than British liberty.

But when, from nations drowned in tears, For crimes by Kaiser done, The cry goes forth for volunteers To come and fight the Hun; We must be free at home to stay, While others take their chance "Of finding little homes of clay"

In Flanders or in France.

TWENTY YEARS AFTER

November, 1917

Where men make b.l.o.o.d.y sacrifice, And pile the earth with slain, Kind Mother Nature ever tries To cover up the stain.

'Mid charnel of the tiger's den May pure white lilies blow, And on the graves of warlike men The peaceful daisies grow.

The gra.s.s is all the greener now Where men most fiercely strove, And maids may hear on Vimy's brow The cooing of the dove.

Where cannon roared by night and day, And men in thousands fell, The sunny headed children play, And pick up bits of sh.e.l.l.

Where once raged war's infernal din, And bullets fell like rain The peaceful peasants gather in A hundred fold of grain; And where men plied the deadly steel, And blood ran red like wine, We see the holy sisters kneel Beside the rebuilt shrine.

And over on the rising ground The fresh young maples stand To mark the graves of those who found Death in a foreign land; Here women of the nameless woes, Still pray when day is done, That G.o.d will rest the souls of those Who strafed the h.e.l.lish Hun.

FAITH

November, 1917

The soldier, when the war began, Presumed the cause was right, But didn't ask the campaign's plan; His duty was to fight.