Over Here Part 17

You have given me safe harbor from harm, Untroubled I've slept through the nights And have waked to the new morning's charm And claimed as my own its delights.

I have taken the finest of fine From your orchards and fields where it grew, But, oh wonderful country of mine, How little I've given to you!

You have given me a home and a place Where in safety my babies may play; Health blooms on each bright dimpled face And laughter is theirs every day.

You have guarded from danger the shrine Where I wors.h.i.+p when toiling is through, But, oh wonderful country of mine, How little have I done for you!

I have taken your gifts without thought, I have reveled in joys that you gave, That I see now with blood had been bought, The blood of your earlier braves.

I have lived without making one sign That the source of my riches I knew, Now, oh wonderful country of mine, I'm here to do something for you!

A Wish

G.o.d grant my children may Not think in terms of gold When I have pa.s.sed away And my poor form is cold.

When I no more shall be, If of me they would brag, I'd have them speak of me As one who loved the Flag.

G.o.d grant my children may Not speak of me as one Who trod a selfish way, When I am dead and gone.

When they recall my name I'd have them tell that I Held dear my Country's fame And kept her standards high.

Not for the things I gave Would I be counted kind; When I am in my grave, If they my worth would find, I'd have them read it there In red and white and blue And stars of radiance rare!

And say that I was true.

Living

If through the years we're not to do Much finer deeds than we have done; If we must merely wander through Time's garden, idling in the sun; If there is nothing big ahead, Why do we fear to join the dead?

Unless to-morrow means that we Shall do some needed service here; That tasks are waiting you and me That will be lost, save we appear; Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow That we may never see to-morrow?

If all our finest deeds are done, And all our splendor's in the past; If there's no battle to be won, What matter if to-day's our last?

Is life so sweet that we would live Though nothing back to life we give?

Not to have lived through seventy years Is greatness. Fitter to be sung In poet's praises and in cheers Is he who dies in action, young; Who ventures all for one great deed And gives his life to serve life's need.

Life's Slacker

The saddest sort of death to die Would be to quit the game called life And know, beneath the gentle sky, You'd lived a slacker in the strife.

That nothing men on earth would find To mark the spot that you had filled; That you must go and leave behind No patch of soil your hands had tilled.

I know no greater shame than this: To feel that yours were empty years; That after death no man would miss Your presence in this vale of tears; That you had breathed the fragrant air And sat by kindly fires that burn, And in earth's riches had a share But gave no labor in return.

Yet some men die this way, nor care: They enter and they leave life's door And at the end, their record's bare-- The world's no better than before.

A few false tears are shed, and then, In busy service, they're forgot.

We have no time to mourn for men Who lived on earth but served it not.

A man in perfect peace to die Must leave some mark of toil behind, Some building towering to the sky, Some symbol that his heart was kind, Some roadway where strange feet may tread That out of grat.i.tude he made; He cannot bravely look ahead Unless his debt to life is paid.

The Proof of Worth

Though victory's proof of the skill you possess, Defeat is the proof of your grit; A weakling can smile in his days of success, But at trouble's first sign he will quit.

So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck Isn't skies that are sunny and fair, But how do you stand to the blow that is struck And how do you battle despair?

A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear And it's easy to see the way out, But the test of man's judgment is something to fear, And what does he do when in doubt?

And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows When sorrows lie deep in his breast; It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows That brings out his worst or his best.

The test of a man is how much he will bear For a cause which he knows to be right, How long will he stand in the depths of despair, How much will he suffer and fight?

There are many to serve when the victory's near And few are the hurts to be borne, But it calls for a leader of courage to cheer The men in a battle forlorn.

It's the way you hold out against odds that are great That proves what your courage is worth, It's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate That shows up your stature and girth.

And victory's nothing but proof of your skill, Veneered with a glory that's thin, Unless it is proof of unfaltering will, And unless you have suffered to win.

Follow a Famous Father

I follow a famous father, His honor is mine to wear; He gave me a name that was free from shame, A name he was proud to bear.

He lived in the morning sunlight, And marched in the ranks of right.

He was always true to the best he knew And the s.h.i.+eld that he wore was bright.

I follow a famous father, And never a day goes by But I feel that he looks down to me To carry his standard high.

He stood to the sternest trials As only a brave man can; Though the way be long, I must never wrong The name of so good a man.

I follow a famous father, Not known to the printed page, Nor written down in the world's renown As a prince of his little age.

But never a stain attached to him And never he stooped to shame; He was bold and brave and to me he gave The pride of an honest name.

I follow a famous father, And him I must keep in mind; Though his form is gone, I must carry on The name that he left behind.

It was mine on the day he gave it, It shone as a monarch's crown, And as fair to see as it came to me It must be when I pa.s.s it down.

The Important Thing

He was playing in the garden when we called him in for tea, But he didn't seem to hear us, so I went out there to see What the little rogue was up to, and I stooped and asked him why, When he heard his mother calling, he had made her no reply.

"I am playing war," he told me, "and I'm up against defeat, And until I stop the Germans I can't take the time to eat."

"Isn't supper so important that you'll quit your round of play?

Don't you want to eat the shortcake mother made for you to-day?"

Then I asked him, but he answered as he shook his little head: "I don't dare to stop for shortcake, if I do they'll kill me dead!

When I drive them from their trenches, then to supper I'll come in, But I mustn't stop a minute, 'cause this war I've got to win."