Hello, Boys! | Page 6

CLEAN
This is the song for a soldier
To sing as he rides from home?To the fields afar where the battles are
Or over the ocean's foam:?'Whatever the dangers waiting
In the lands I have not seen,?If I do not fall--if I come back at all,
Then I will come back clean.
'I may lie in the mud of the trenches,
I may reek with blood and mire,?But I will control, by the God in my soul,
The might of my man's desire.?I will fight my foe in the open,
But my sword shall be sharp and keen?For the foe within who would lure me to sin,
And I will come back clean.
'I may not leave for my children
Brave medals that I have worn,?But the blood in my veins shall leave no stains
On bride or on babes unborn;?And the scars that my body may carry
Shall not be from deeds obscene,?For my will shall say to the beast, OBEY!
And I will come back clean.
'Oh, not on the fields of slaughter
And not in the prison-cell,?Or in hunger and cold is the story told
By war, of its darkest hell.?But the old, old sin of the senses
Can tell what that word may mean?To the soldiers' wives and to innocent lives,
And I will come back clean.'
CAMOUFLAGE
Camouflage is all the rage.?Ladies in their fight with age -?Soldiers in their fight with foes -?Demagogues who mask and pose?In the guise of statesmen--girls?Black of eyes with golden curls -?Politicians, votes in mind,?Smiling, affable and kind,?All use camouflage to-day.?As you go upon your way,?Walk with caution, move with care;?Camouflage is everywhere!
THE AWAKENING
I said, 'I will place my heart, my heart all broken,
Beside the world's torn heart, that it may know?The comradeship of sorrow that is not spoken,
But is carried on wings of all the winds that blow.?I will go homeless into homes of grieving,
And find my own grief easier to be borne.'?So over menacing seas I went, believing
Where all was mourning, I would cease to mourn.
And now I am here, close to the great world-sorrow,
Here where each heart some mighty grief has known;?But from each suffering soul I seem to borrow
A poignant pain that but augments my own.?The earth is like one vast tempestuous ocean,
Where struggling beings fight for light and breath:?I feel their anguish, feel each keen emotion -
Yet through it all, I KNOW THERE IS NO DEATH.
And as we toss on billows red with slaughter,
Unto each tortured, anguished soul I cry,?'There are green lands beyond this raging water,
We shall come into harbour by and by.?Our dead dwell near, life is a thing eternal:
And I have talked with One from that fair shore.?We are but passing through a dream infernal;
We shall awake, we shall be glad once more.'
THE KHAKI BOYS WHO WERE NOT AT THE FRONT
Oh! it is not just the men who face the guns,?Not the fighters at the Front alone, to-day?Who will bring the longed-for close to the bloody fray, for those Could not carry on that fray without the ones?Who are working at war's problems far away.
You are ALL our splendid heroes in the strife,?And we class you with the warriors maimed and scarred,?Though you never have been near enough the battle din to hear, While you laboured in the dull routine of life?In your khaki suits with sleeves that are not barred.
You have offered up yourselves to save the world;?You have felt the abnegation of the Christ:?And whatever work you do is a noble work and true;?Though it be not done with banners all unfurled,?You will find it has, in sight of God, sufficed.
While you carry back no medals when you go,?Not without you had the fighters borne war's brunt:?So just lift your heads uncowed, for your country will be proud And its lasting love and honour will bestow?On the khaki boys who were not at the Front.
TIME'S HYMN OF HATE
Oh, boastful, wicked land, that once was beautiful and great, How bitter and how black must be your self-invited fate,?While Time goes down the centuries and sings his hymn of hate!
Time's voice is just. His words ring true. For as the past recedes,?The clear-eyed Future slowly writes the story of its deeds; And as Time toward the Infinite his ceaseless flight is winging
He shall go singing?The hymn of hate, of men and gods, for all your deeds of lust, For all your acts of cruelty and hell-concocted schemes?(More hideous than the darkest plot of which a devil dreams) Which sprang from your Medusa head before it touched the dust.
Beneath the strangling hand of Fate?That strident voice of yours?Shall hush to silence, soon or late?That Justice that endures?Will mobilise its mighty ranks and free the human race,
Then shall all Space,?Yea, all the chains of sphere on sphere,?With that loud hymn be ringing,
Which Time goes singing?His far flight winging?And all the cherubims of God that dwell in regions o'er us
Shall swell the chorus.
Oh, boastful, wicked land,