Over Here Part 6

G.o.d grant to us the strength of men, G.o.d help us to be true Until that glorious morning when The world shall smile anew.

We shall be tested sore and tried, And flayed by many fears, Yet let us in this faith abide, That right shall rule the years.

Sympathy

One came to the house with a pretty speech: "It's all for the best," said he, And I know that he sought my heart to reach, And I know that he grieved with me.

But I was too full of my sorrow then To list to his words or care; Though I've tried I cannot recall again The comfort he gave me there.

But another came, and his lips were dumb As he grasped me by the hand, And he stammered: "Old man, I had to come, Oh, I hope you'll understand."

And ever since then I have felt his hand Clasped tightly in my own, And to-day his silence I understand-- My sorrowing he had known.

Hate

They say we must not hate, nor fight in hate.

I've thought it over many a solemn hour, And cannot mildly view the man or state That has no thought, save only to be great; I cannot love the creature drunk with power.

I hate the hand that slaughters babes at sea, I hate that will that orders wives to die.

And there is something rises up in me When brutes run wild in crime and lechery That soft adjustments will not satisfy.

Men seldom fight the things they do not hate; A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn; Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate; You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait, And change his nature with to-morrow's morn.

If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go; Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign; Honor and shame together cannot grow, Sin either conquers or we lay it low, Wrong must be hated if the truth remain.

I hold that we must fight this war in hate-- In bitter hate of blood in fury spilled; Of children, bending over book and slate, Slaughtered to make a Prussian despot great; In hate of mothers pitilessly killed.

In hate of liars plotting wars for gain; In hate of crimes too black for printed page; In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign-- And crush forever all within his train.

Such hate shall be the glory of our age.

General Pers.h.i.+ng

He isn't long on speeches. At the banquet table, he Could name a dozen places where he would much rather be.

He's not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review, But he's busy every minute when he's got a job to do.

And you'll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square For the glory of his country when his boys get over there.

He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France, And he knows that he's the leader of America's advance, And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail, So he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail.

And you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare, And he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there.

He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep O'er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep, And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers, With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears.

He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share, And he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there.

The Better Thing

It is better to die for the flag, For its red and its white and its blue, Than to hang back and s.h.i.+rk and to lag And let the flag sink out of view.

It is better to give up this life In the heat and the thick of the strife Than to live out your days 'neath a sky, Where Old Glory shall never more fly.

The peace that we long for will be Far worse than the war that we dread If never again we're to see The blue, and the white and the red Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies.

If ever the Stars and Stripes dies Or loses its l.u.s.tre and pride, We shall wish in our souls we had died.

It is better by far that we die Than that flag shall pa.s.s out of the world; If ever it ceases to fly, If ever it's hauled down and furled, Dishonor shall stamp us with shame And freedom be naught but a name, And the few years of dearly-bought breath Will be filled with worse horrors than death.

To a Lady Knitting

Little woman, hourly sitting, Something for a soldier knitting, What in fancy can you see?

Many pictures come to me Through the st.i.tch that now you're making: I behold a bullet breaking; I can see some soldier lying In that garment slowly dying, And that very bit of thread In your fingers, turns to red.

Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.

It may be some hero daring Shall that very thing be wearing When he ventures forth to give Life that other men may live.

He may braver wield the saber As a tribute to your labor, And for that, which you have knitted, Better for his task be fitted.

When the thread has left your finger, Something of yourself may linger, Something of your lovely beauty May sustain him in his duty.

Some one's boy that was a baby Soon shall wear it, and it may be He will write and tell his mother Of the kindness of another, And her spirit shall caress you, And her prayers at night shall bless you.

You may never know its story, Cannot know the grief or glory That are destined now and hover Over him your wool shall cover, Nor what spirit shall invade it Once your gentle hands have made it.

Little woman, hourly sitting, Something for a soldier knitting, 'Tis no common garb you're making, These, no common pains you're taking.

Something lovely, holy, lingers O'er the needles in your fingers And with every st.i.tch you're weaving Something of yourself you're leaving.

From your gentle hands and tender There may come a nation's splendor, And from this, your simple duty, Life may win a fairer beauty.

A Good Soldier

He writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us!

I can't describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us.

He says the military life is not of his selection, He's only soldiering to-day to give the Flag protection.

But since he's in the army now and doing duties humble, He'll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble.

He's not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping, "But when I must," he writes to us, "they'll never find me sleeping!

I hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us And there's no doubt that mother's meals can beat the ones they get us, But since I'm here to do my bit, close to the job I'm sticking; I'll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking.

"I'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel, I'd like to get my picture in some ill.u.s.trated journal; I don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way, Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway.

But still I'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one, For while I am a private here I'm going to be a good one.

"A soldier's life is not the way I'd choose to make my living, But now I'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it I'm giving.

Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I'd consider finer, But since I've got this one to do I'll never be a whiner.

I'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter, They'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better."