Vaterland!

And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide
    That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze;
That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high
    May be seen this banner on all the seas.
No triumph of arms is my flight by night,
    It is only a part of a murderous raid:
Dropping a bomb on an innocent child
    Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid—
            And all for the Vaterland!

For Thomas Walsh.

"SOCK IT TO 'EM"

"A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he most needs for the winter is good warm socks."—Press Despatch.

Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it,
    The storm is o'er your head;
It is bursting in the trenches
    And you're just as good as dead.
You put your foot on Belgium
    And defied your fate and doom,
And now the whole world hates you
    And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"

True, your Taubchens still are sailing,
    But your battleships are not;
They are coop'd up in a corner
    Save the submerg'd ones that fought.
You are saving time and fuel,
    But you're sad and filled with gloom,
For the very winds are whispering
    "Blow hard and sock it to 'em."

You have sought more spacious realm
    In the free and genial sun:
Has your sceptre widened any
    With the salvo of each gun?
Your "World-Power" seems to narrow,
    And your hope lies in a tomb,
While dark Fate weaves your chaplet
    And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"

For Theodore Botrel.

LANGEMARCK

A glory lights the skies of Flanders
    Where the blood-stained fields lie bare,
Where the clouds of war have gathered,
    Built their parapets in the air;
Halted stands the Teuton army,
    Checked its onslaught at a sign;
Forward roll the warlike forces,
    Sons of Canada in line.

Let them taste of Northern courage
    Where the lordly maple grows;
Let them face the heroes nurtured
    Where the stars have wed the snows;
We are sons of sires undaunted,
    Children of the hills and plains;
Ours a courage born of duty,
    Pluck and dash of many strains.

Tell it to our children's children
    How Canadians saved the day;
Write it with the pen of history,
    Sing it as a fireside lay;
How at Langemarck in Flanders,
    Though the odds were eight to one,
Our Canadians stood unbroken,
    Sword to sword, and gun to gun.

For Sir Wilfrid Laurier.

THE BUGLE CALL

Do you hear the call of our Mother,
    From over the sea, from over the sea?
The call to her children, in every land;
To her sons on Afric's far-stretch'd veldt;
To her dark-skinned children on India's shore,
Whose souls are nourish'd on Aryan lore;
To her sons of the Northland where frosty stars
Glitter and shine like a helmet of Mars;
    Do you hear the call of our Mother?

Do you hear the call of our Mother
    From over the sea, from over the sea?
The call to Australia's legions strong,
That move with the might and stealth of a wave;
To the men of the camp and men of the field,
Whose courage has taught them never to yield;
To the men whose counsel has saved the State,
And thwarted the plans of