Hello, Boys! | Page 8

to dress, and they
wear their clothes

In a fetching, Frenchy way;
And yet to me, there is just one girl -
The girl of the U.S.A.
I like to listen when French girls talk,
Though I'm weak in the 'parlez-vous' game;
But the language of
youth in every land
Is somehow about the same,
And I've learned a regular code of
shrugs,
And they seem to know what I say!
But the girl whose voice goes
straight to my heart
Is the girl of the U.S.A.
I haven't a word but words of praise
For these dear little girls of France;
And I will confess that I've felt a
thrill
As I faced their line of advance!
But I haven't been taken a prisoner
yet,
And I won't be, until the day
When I carry my colours to lay at the
feet
Of a girl of the U.S.A.
PASSING THE BUCK
Whatever the task that comes your way,
Just take it as part of your luck.
Look it right square in the eyes, and
say,
'This is MY task, I'll do it to-day':
Don't pass the buck.

Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight,
Or whether you trundle a truck,
Just tackle your job and do it right:
Don't pass the buck.
The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!
Deep into war's mire and muck.
If you want to put it again on its
track,
Don't shift your load on another man's back:
Don't pass the buck.
SONG OF THE AVIATOR
You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed,
You may
laugh with delight as you ride the ocean,
You may rush afar in your
touring car,
Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping -
But
you never will know the joy of motion
Till you rise up over the earth
some day,
And soar like an eagle, away--away.
High and higher above each spire,
Till lost to sight is the tallest
steeple,
With the winds you chase in a valiant race,
Looping,
swooping, where mountains are grouping,
Hailing them comrades, in
place of people.
Oh! vast is the rapture the birdman knows,
As into
the ether he mounts and goes.
He is over the sphere of human fear;

He has come into touch with things supernal.
At each man's gate
death stands await;
And dying, flying, were better than lying
In
sick-beds, crying for life eternal.
Better to fly half-way to God
Than
to burrow too long like a worm in the sod.
THE STEVEDORES
We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong,
We are given
the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long. We handle the
heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal;
While soldiers and sailors

work in the light, we burrow below like a mole.
But somebody has to
do this work, or the soldiers could not fight! And whatever work is
given a man, is good if he does it right.
We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers.
We did not wait
for the draft to come, to put aside our fears; We flung them away on the
winds of fate, at the very first call of our land,
And each of us offered
a willing heart and the strength of a brawny hand.
We are the army
stevedores, and work as we must and may,
The cross of honour will
never be ours to proudly wear away.
But the men at the Front could never be there,
And the battles could
not be won,
If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine
And left
their work undone.
Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn't
you!
We are the army stevedores--give us our due!
A SONG OF HOME
I am singing a song to the boys to-day,
A song of the home that is far
away.
And I know that an echo the word is waking
In many a heart
that is secretly aching,
Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear
Home.
But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove,
And it flies straight
into the hearts you love.
You picture the days of your youthful joys,
The old home circle, the
girls and boys
You knew in that wonderful world of pleasure,
When
life danced on to a lilting measure;
Each scene you treasure, thinking
of Home, dear Home.
And here is a thought that is sweet and true -

The ones you long for are longing for you.
You picture the day when
the war is done,
The duty accomplished, the victory won,
And over
the billows our ships go leaping,
Into our beautiful harbour sweeping,

And with laughter and weeping, you go back Home, Home, Home.
On the walls of your heart you must hang with care
This beautiful
picture, framed in prayer.

Thinking of Home, you are blazing a trail
For that glorious day when
our ships shall sail;
Where the Goddess of Liberty lights the water

To guide you back from the fields of slaughter,
Fair Freedom's
daughter, who welcomes us Home, Home, Home.
So hold your
vision, and work and pray,
As you dream of the Home that is far
away.
THE SWAN OF