Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 4

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 l.u.s.t and pride and scorn- Till, echoing in our weary b.r.e.a.s.t.s A righteous hate was born... . .

Beware the patient man in wrath, The olden proverb saith; And, Sp.a.w.n 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 loads.

But now we're returning to billets for rest- Earned repose.

We've been in the trenches for many a week.

In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak.

Till we all are so hoa.r.s.e we scarcely can speak.

Goodness knows.

Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn, And mud?

My heavens! we have it in our leggings and hair- On breeches and jackets and all that we wear- But we are so happy, we really don't care- 'Tisn't blood.

It isn't those long, endless vigils at night, On the rack.

It isn't the fighting and hunger and heat- It isn't the slush and rheumatics and sleet- It isn't the once-a-day cold meal we eat In the black.

It isn't the sh.e.l.ling from sun unto sun- Cursed sh.e.l.ls: It isn't the camouflage that you must use If you have to lie down in your trench for a snooze, It isn't the stenches the Hun corpses choose For their smells.

But it's clean clothes and gasoline-bath and a shave- What a treat!

It's sleeping on elegant straw, and undressed, With never a Toto disturbing your rest; It's regaining your "pep" and a wonderful zest When you eat.

We're all of us willing, we're all of us game For the fray: But now we have finished a good hitch, and more, In conducting this large and salubrious war, Do you think we should feel very tearful or sore On this day?

So some we are singing and some shoot the bull, And some sleep.

(Don't wake the poor devil, just leave him alone, Though he's jammed on your foot till it's dead as a stone), And we rumble through towns on the way to our own, Packed like sheep.

And your hand is afingering bills large and small- Francs galore.

And you've visions of things that your poor stomach begs, Including nuts, candy and chocolate and eggs; And you find you've forgotten the crick in your legs- Cramped and sore.

We're a light-hearted, dirty-faced, rollicking crew- Grimy pawed: Though a few cogitate on the living and dead, And some look behindward, and some look ahead, And some think of bunkies that shrapnel has sped To their G.o.d.

_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._

MADEMOISELLE.

Oh Mademoiselle behind the Lines, When we're weary and covered with dirt, And you make a promenade with us, Or perhaps you mend our s.h.i.+rt.

You know our lives from your brothers, Or your sweethearts who can't come back, But only your laughter greets us When we shed that awful "pack."

And some of you sell eggs to us In a town whence most have fled: And some of your names have "de" and your blood Runs blue as well as red.

Oh Mademoiselle you sure are "chic"

From your head to the tip o' your toes, And if you like us, you just plain _like_ us, And you don't give a d.a.m.n who knows.

And Mademoiselle those eyes, Oo la la!

So sparkling, dark and rare, With the love of all the ages lying Deep and dormant there.

(Please, please don't think us fickle- That we didn't play the game- But you seemed so human and made to be loved, And we murmured, "Je vous aime.")

We hear you're going back with us To the tune of ten thousand wives, And we wish you ten thousand blessings, And ten thousand happy lives.

So here's a health to you, Mademoiselle, Who helped us see it through, And the load that your laughter lightened Is the debt that we owe to you.

THE FIRST DIVISION.

American Expeditionary Forces, 1917-1919.

When the clarion call of Country Bade strong men rise and go, Came they the first of the willing first, In the pride that leal men know.

When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread 'Bove the sh.o.r.es of an angered land, Sailed they the first of the Viking first Where the treacherous waters spanned.

When the Eagle's Brood awoke to the shriek Of the great sh.e.l.ls day and night, First of the flock bled they beneath The star-flare's blinding light.

When the lunging, torn front lines locked And the strife raged man and man, Swept they the first of the fighting first- And the van of the battle van.

From the training days of Gondrecourt- Demange-cold, wet and gray- To the trenches north of Luneville- To Bouconville-Xivray-