rather well.

And after all our resumé
    And cogitating bull,
We’ve reached a clear decision,
    Most amplified and full:—

The greatest time in all the life
    Of any living man—
The mightiest moment of the Game—
    The proudest, high élan;

The thing we came three thousand miles
    Across the seas to do—
“The Day,” the splendid hour
    That waits for me and you,

Arrives—We spring into the wastes
    Of land, ripped, roweled and barred—
The battle-lust in brain and eye—
    The weary jaw set hard;

The rifle gripped in hands of steel,
    Where, flashing in the sun,
Sweep on our blazing bayonets,
    The terror of the Hun.

THE BATTLE MOTHER.

Over the sodden trenches—
    Over the skirmish line—
High o’er the hole-torn fields and roads
    Cometh a face to mine.

Under the burning gas attack,
    And the stench of the bursting shell,
We hope we may live for her dear sake—
    She who would wish us well.

(She who has ever cherished us—
    But when the hour came
Choked back the tears of the faithful years,
    As we left to play the game.)

Between the blazing horizons
    That hammer the long night through,
Lapping their tongues of hatred—
    Fearless she comes to you.

And over the roar of battle
    Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings,
Shine forth the loving eyes we hold
    Above all earthly things.

A World run mad with slaughter—
    A charnel-house of blood—
But the face of the Battle Mother
    Above the crimson flood.

SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    The whole big army did,
But we prefer the spirit
    Of the Bayard and the Cid.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But when Jack sailed for France,
They didn’t have to drag us in
    By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But when it first began,
From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf,
    We rose, a single man.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But when the days were black,
Glad we sprang to the call to front
    The snarling, charging pack.

The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate,
    In a victor’s drunken might:
The unleashed, howling gray hordes
    Sweeping plain and height.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But when the great floes pressed,
Came we to break the ice and clear
    A channel for the rest.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But now the thing is o’er,
We ’re glad we came the way we came
    When the Nation rose to war.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    But now the thing is done,
We’re glad we came the time we came
    In the heyday of the Hun.

Shades of Patrick Henry—
    Of Washington and Hale,
God grant we’ve kept the trust—God grant
    The Old Guard shall not fail.

The drafted men fought hard and well,
    The whole vast army did,
But we prefer the spirit
    Of the Bayard and the Cid.

O. D.

O. D., it ought to mean Oh Damn,
    When in the pay of Uncle Sam:
But when you hear the soldier blab
    “O. D.,” it just means Olive Drab.

The leggings, breeches and the boots
    Of Uncle Samuel’s war galoots—
The overcoats and jackets too,
    Confess the selfsame mournful hue.

It may be excellent camouflage
    To try to fool a young barrage;
It may not show the bally dirt
    So much upon your knees and shirt.

It may be serviceable and such
    When you are beating-up the “Dutch;”
But from a calm esthetic point,
    The color’s sadly out-of-joint.

A little mud on red or blue
    May seem quite prominent to you;
But put the same upon O. D.,
    And the whole blame thing looks mud to me.

But then, it matches trenches well,
    And things that make you say, Oh Hell
For instance, hikes, inspections, drills,
    And busted arms with C. C. pills.

It makes you heave a sigh or two
    For the good old days of brass and blue;
But if it’s fit to beat the “Dutch”
    I guess it doesn’t matter much.

ARTILLERY REGISTERING.

They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
        My boy.
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench,
Which means tonight they’ll surely drench
These works with shells that burst and stench
        (And cloy).

They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
        My lad.
It breaks with shrill and tinny sound,
And quite promiscuously around
It showers metal on the ground
        (It’s bad).

They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
        Recruit.
So do not stand and stupid stare
Till some comes down and parts your hair,
But hunt your dugout and beware
        (To boot).

They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
        Young man.
Which means tonight the gas shells’ thud
Will muffled fall like chunks of mud;
And th’ blinding, crashing Prince of Blood—
        The G. I. Can.

They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
        My child.
And ere the dawn is turning gray—
You mark the very words I say—
There’s going to be hell to pay
        (High piled).

RECIPROCITY.

We haven’t been in this large strife
    So very long to date,
But we have learned our answer to
    The Prussian “Hymn of Hate.”
And we are feeding him for pap,
    As plain as A. B. C,
A pretty little ditty known
    As “Reciprocity.”

The Hun he planned for War, red War,
    By ocean, air and land;
And he is getting oodles of
    The same, to date, in hand.
He suddenly sprang poison gas
    Upon a valiant foe,
And now he’s getting gas and gas,
    And more gas, as you know.

He found new tricks and wrinkles for
    This gory battle game,
And now we stoop, no more his dupe,
    And beat him at the same.
He drowned our women in the sea—
    He ravished where he won—
But these were little things we couldn’t
    Copy from the Hun.

His crimson heel lie bade us feel,
    His lust and pride and scorn—
Till, echoing in our weary breasts
    A righteous hate was born. . . . .
Beware the patient man in wrath,
    The olden proverb saith;
And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood—
    In blood meet ye your death.

TRUCKS.

Lunging-wild, careening trucks
    Plunging through the rain,
Sweeping down the rainbow road
    To the sunlit plain.
And echoing back with ponderous roar
    Their cargo’s wild refrain.

We’re bowling over the roads of France—
                White roads.
We’re twenty gray tracks in a long, long line,
Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine.
And some day we’ll roll to the Watch on the Rhine—
                Joyous