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spot,?And oh, it seems a dreadful dream?This age of shell and shot!
His golf clubs in the corner stand;?His tennis racket, too,?That once the pressure of his hand?In times of laughter knew?Is in the place it long has kept?For us to look upon.?The room is as it was, except?The boy, himself, has gone.
The pictures of his girls are here,?Still smiling as of yore,?And everything that he held dear?Is treasured as before.?Into his room his mother goes?As usual, day by day,?And cares for it, although she knows?Our boy is far away.
We keep it as he left it, when?He bade us all good-bye,?Though I confess that, now and then,?We view it with a sigh.?For never night shall thrill with joy?Nor day be free from gloom?Until once more our soldier boy?Shall occupy his room.
Envy
It's a bigger thing you're doing than the most of us have done; We have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun, And upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife; Yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life. Oh, I don't know how to say it, but I'll never think of you Without wishing I were sharing in the work you have to do.
I have never known a moment that was fraught with real care, Save the hurts and griefs of sorrow that all mortals have to bear; With the gay and smiling marchers I have tramped on pleasant ways, And have paid with feeble service for the gladness of my days. But to you has come a summons, yours are days of sacrifice, And for all life has of sweetness you must pay a bitter price.
Men have fought and died before me, men must fight and die to-day, I have merely taken pleasures for which others had to pay; I have been a man of laughter, there's no path my feet have made, I have merely been a marcher in life's gaudy dress parade. But you wear the garb of service, you have splendid deeds to do, You shall sound the depths of manhood, and my boy, I envy you.
For Your Boy and Mine
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall rest,?But that our children after us shall know life at its best; For all we care about ourselves--a crust of bread or two, A place to sleep and clothes to wear is all that we'd pursue. We'd tramp the world on sunny days, both light of heart and mind, And give no thought to days to come or days we leave behind.
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall play,?But that our children after us shall tread a merry way. We brave the toil of life for them, for them we clamber high, And if 'twould spare them hurt and pain, for them we'd gladly die. If we had but ourselves to serve, we'd quit the ways of pride And with the simplest joys of earth we'd all be satisfied.
The best for them is what we dream. Our little girls and boys Must know the finest life can give of comforts and of joys. They must be shielded well from woe and kept secure from care, And if we could, upon our backs, their burdens we would bear. And so once more we rise to-day to face the battle zone That those who follow us may know the Flag that we have known.
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall live;?The greatest joys we hope to claim are those that we shall give. We face the heat and strife of life, its battle and its toil That those who follow us may know the best of freedom's soil. And if we knew that by our death we'd keep that flag on high, For your boy and my boy, how gladly we would die.
Soldierly
The glory of a soldier--and a soldier's not a saint--?Is the way he does his duty without grumbling or complaint; His work's not always pleasant, but he does it rain or shine, And he grabs a bit of glory when he's fighting in the line; But the lesson that he teaches every day to me an' you?Is the way to do a duty that we do not like to do.
Any sort o' chap can whistle when his work is mostly fun; A hundred want the pleasant jobs to every sturdy one?That'll grab the dreary duty an' the mean an' lowly task, Or the drab an' cheerless service that life often has to ask; But somebody has to do it, an' the test of me an' you?Is the way we face the labor that we do not like to do.
Now, it isn't very pleasant standin' guard out in the rain But it's in the line o' duty, an' no soldier will complain,