War Rhymes by Wayfarer Part 9

The child, with all things yet to prove, Still thinks the world is fair, While trusting in a mother's love, And in a father's care.

The patient 'neath the surgeon's knife Unconscious is, and still, The only hope to save his life Is in the doctor's skill.

The farmer sows in faith his seed, And trusts the sun and rain, Meanwhile he fights the choking weed That grows among the grain.

The planets in their orbits roll, The seasons come and go, The angry seas own G.o.d's control, His care the sparrows know.

But we, by pride made over bold, Face Providence unawed, And like the patriarch of old, Presume to question G.o.d.

Ten thousand prayers in discord rise From church and cloister dim, When will we cease our feeble cries, And trust the world to Him?

'Tis His the broken heart to bind, To heal the serpent's bite, The judge is He of all mankind, And shall He not do right?

EVERYBODY HELPING

March, 1917

If you want a fine new car, Do without, If you like a good cigar, Cut it out, Thrift will help to win the war, There's no doubt.

If you are too old to fight, You can pay, If you think war isn't right, You can pray, Help to crush the Kaiser's might As you may.

If you are a Tory gay, Or a Grit, Throw your politics away, Do your bit, War is now the game to play; You are it.

If you have good things to eat, Pack a box, If you are a maiden neat, Knit some socks, Keep the soldier's tired feet, Off the rocks.

Get a piece of land on spec, Plow and sow, There's a place for every peck, You can grow.

Swat the Kaiser in the neck, Issue him a pa.s.sage check Down below.

THE WORLD'S OVERDRAFT

May, 1917

On life's broad fields, whate'er we sow, 'Tis certain we shall reap; The watching scribes, above, below, Somewhere a record keep.

The faithless church, the lying creed Teaching that wrong is right, The childless home, the heartless greed, The jealousy and spite.

The feasting, selfish, idle rich, The hungry, hardened poor, The drunkard lying in the ditch, The brothel's open door; Whate'er we do, where'er we dwell, Whate'er our names or creeds, They total up in heaven or h.e.l.l, The sum of all our deeds.

We thought the race was to the swift, The battle to the strong, Like mariners with boat adrift, We heard the sirens' song, We put our trust in armies vast, In battleships and marts, We deemed but hoodoos of the past The prayers from human hearts.

So heavy grew the moral debt Of every cla.s.s and rank, No further credit could we get At Satan's private bank.

The wealth bestowed by sea and land We squandered in a day, The devil took our notes of hand, And now there's h.e.l.l to pay.

The world will drown in blood and tears, And famine stalk abroad, 'Til men repent their sordid years And humbly call on G.o.d.

This cruel war the Kaiser made, (The worst since Satan fell,) Will end when all the world has paid Its overdraft on h.e.l.l.

SLACKERS

We condemn, as selfish slackers, Those not willing to enlist To oppose the Prussian Kultur And the Kaiser's iron fist, But they're not the only slackers, Those who will not go and fight.

For every man's a slacker Who does less now than he might.

There are slackers in the pulpit, In the elder's cushioned pew, And all through the congregation There are slackers not a few.

There are slackers in the workshop, There are slackers on the farm, And slackers down in Parliament Whose defeat would do no harm.

Some munition men are slackers, And some who store our food.

While they dream of higher profits And of interest accrued.

We condemn the youthful shirker And we say his heart's not right, But there's many an arrant slacker Not eligible to fight.

So let each and all get busy, If we would the Kaiser thrash.

From the man who owns the millions To the girl who slings the hash, All the women busy knitting, All the men out hoeing beans, For the war may be decided By the work behind the scenes.

THE LOYAL BLACKS

August, 1917

Three years ago the war began, Three years ago to-day The Empire's call to every man Was either fight or pay.

Some men the country well could spare Their clear-cut duty shun But all the Blacks have done their share To help defeat the Hun.

My brother Jim, who worked by spells (He had a lazy streak) Is busy now inspecting sh.e.l.ls At forty bones a week.

And Jack, of course, is rather young, He's just nineteen or so, And Tom had trouble with his lung About twelve years ago.

My brother Ben would like to fight, The Kaiser makes him wild, But if he went 'twould not be right, He has a wife and child.

I cannot lease my farm and store, With prices soaring higher, If times keep good for two years more I think I can retire.

Although we didn't volunteer And learn the soldier's art, We hold some good positions here And bravely do our part, While some the khaki suits have donned, And in the trenches slave We put into a war loan bond Each dollar we can save.

But there are lots of husky chaps Could go as well as not, There's Arthur Mee and Joe perhaps, Paul Pierce and Barney Bott, And Peter Jones and Sam Delong, And Jack Smith's hired man, And Scotty Moss, and Wesley Strong, And Billy Barlow's Dan.

And Robert Green and Walter White, And others I could name; When these refuse to go and fight It is a burning shame; I think they should be forced to go, Conscription is the plan To catch these chaps so very slow And make them play the man.

THE TROUBLES OF TINO

War pot is still stewing, Not a sign of peace, Trouble now is brewing 'Round the sh.o.r.es of Greece; Tino needs our pity, Threatened by the Huns, Seaboard town and city Faced by British guns.