Hello, Boys! | Page 8

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 DIJON
I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast?Was at its loudest; when there was no sound?From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,?Or rattle of their wagons in the street.?When every engine whistle would repeat?Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,?'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring?Remnants of men back as war's offering.'
And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye?Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;?But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by?Where war was not; a little lake whereon?Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,?Majestic and imposing, yet serene.
I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight?Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,?Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid?While silver fountains for his pleasure played.?Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part?To rest a tired heart.
VEILS
Veils, everywhere float veils; veils long and black,?Framing white faces, oft-times young and fair,?But, like a rose touched by untimely frost,?Showing the blighting marks of sorrow's track.
Veils, veils, veils everywhere. They tell the cost?Of man-made war. They show the awful toll?Paid by the hearts of women for the crimes,?The age-old crimes by selfishness ill-named?'Justice' and 'Honour' and 'The call of Fate' -?High words men use to hide their low estate.?About the joy and beauty of this world?A long black veil is furled.?Even the face of Heaven itself seems lost?Behind a veil. It takes a fervent soul?In these tense times?To visualise a God so long defamed?By insolent lips, that send out prayers, and prate?Of God's collaboration in dark deeds,?So foul they put to shame the fiends of hell.
Yet One DOES dwell?In Secret Centres of the Universe -?The Mighty Maker; and He hears and heeds?The still small voice of soulful, selfless faith;?And He is lifting now the veil of death,?So long down-dropped between those worlds and earth.?Yea! He is giving faith a great new birth?By letting echoes from the hidden places?Where dwell our dead, fall on love's listening ear.?Hearken, and you shall hear?The messages which come