Songs for a Little House | Page 8

Von Kluck belongs,?The land of poison gas and Zeppelin?
Most gifted race the world has ever known,?Now bleeding in the dust of rank despairs,--?Was it for this men builded at Cologne,?Kant wrote at midnight, Schumann dreamed his airs?
IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICAN AVIATORS KILLED IN FRANCE
Not at their own dear country's call,?But answering another voice,?They gave to Liberty their all,?Nor faltered in the choice.
Their young and ardent hearts were coined?Into a golden seal for France;?Above their graves two flags are joined;?They lie beyond mischance.
And we, remembering whence came?Our Goddess where the sea-tide runs,?Nobly acquit the noble claim?France has upon our sons.
Who dies for France, for us he dies,?For all that gentle is and fair:?God prosper, in those shell-torn skies,?Our chivalry of air.
THE FLAGS ON FIFTH AVENUE
Above the stately roofs, wind-lifted, high,?A lane of vivid colour in the sky,?They ripple cleanly, seen of every eye.
This is your flag: none other: yours alone:?Yours then to honour: and where it is flown?By your devotion let your heart be known.
Feeble the man who dare not bow the knee?Before some symbol greater far than he--?This is no pomp and no idolatry.
Emblem of youth, and hope, and strength held true?By honour, and by wise forbearance, too--?God bless the flags along the Avenue!
"THEY"
Whoso has gift of simple speech?Of measured words and plain,?To him be given it to teach?The sadness of Lorraine.
She asked but sun and rain to bless?Her blue enfolding hills,?And time, to heal the old distress?Of dim-remembered ills.
The fields, the vineyards and the lathe,?The river, loved so well--?O sunset pools and lads that bathe?Along the green Moselle.
One whispered word--curt, bitter, brief,?Lives now in black Lorraine,?One word that sums her whole of grief--?Dead children, women slain.
The cure's blood that stained the road,?The village burned away,?The needless horrors men abode?Are all in one word--_they_.
BALLAD OF FRENCH RIVERS
Of streams that men take honour in?The Frenchman looks to three,?And each one has for origin?The hills of Burgundy;?And each has known the quivers?Of blood and tears and pain--?O gallant bleeding rivers,?The Marne, the Meuse, the Aisne.
Says Marne: "My poplar fringes?Have felt the Prussian tread,?The blood of brave men tinges?My banks with lasting red;?Let others ask due credit,?But France has me to thank;?Von Kluck himself has said it:--?I turned the Boche's flank!"
Says Meuse: "I claim no winning,?No glory on the stage,?Save that, in the beginning?I strove to save Liege.?Alas that Frankish rivers?Should share such shame as mine--?In spite of all endeavours?I flow to join the Rhine!"
Says Aisne: "My silver shallows?Are salter than the sea,?The woe of Rheims still hallows?My endless tragedy.?Of rivers rich in story?That run through green Champagne,?In agony and glory?The chief am I, the Aisne!"
Now there are greater waters?That Frenchmen all hold dear--?The Rhone, with many daughters,?That runs so icy clear;?There's Moselle, deep and winy,?There's Loire, Garonne and Seine,?But O the valiant tiny--?The Marne, the Meuse, the Aisne!
PEASANT AND KING
What the Peasants of Europe Are Thinking
You who put faith in your banks and brigades,?Drank and ate largely, slept easy at night,?Hoarded your lyddite and polished the blades,?Let down upon us this blistering blight--?You who played grandly the easiest game,?Now can you shoulder the weight of the same??Say, can _you_ fight?
Here is the tragedy: losing or winning?Who profits a copper? Who garners the fruit??From bloodiest ending to futile beginning?Ours is the blood, and the sorrow to boot.?Muster your music, flutter your flags,?Ours are the hunger, the wounds, and the rags.?Say, can _you_ shoot?
Down in the muck and despair of the trenches?Comes not the moment of bitterest need;?Over the sweat and the groans and the stenches?There is a joy in the valorous deed--?But, lying wounded, what one forgets?You and your ribbons and d----d epaulettes--?Say, do _you_ bleed?
This is _your_ game: it was none of our choosing--?We are the pawns with whom you have played.?Yours is the winning and ours is the losing,?But, when the penalties have to be paid,?We who are left, and our womenfolk, too,?Rulers of Europe, will settle with you--?You, and your trade.?_October_, 1914.
TILL TWISTON WENT
Till Twiston went, the war still seemed?A far-off thing: a nightmare dreamed,?Some bruit or fable half-believed,?Too hideous to be conceived.
His letter came: the memories throng?Of days that made the friendship strong--?The oar he won, the ties he wore,?His love of china, fairy lore,?(And flappers); and his honest eyes;?His stammer, his absurdities;?His marmalade, his bitter beer,?And all that made him quaint and dear.
And though we muckle have to do?Yet love must needs come breaking through,?And now and then the office hum?Dies like a mist, ... and there will come?An Oxford breakfast scene: the quad?All blue and grey outside--O God--?And there sits Twiston at the feast?Proclaiming he will be a priest!?I see his eyes, his homely neb--?Ring, telephones, and cut the web!
And when it's over, will there be?In his grey house above the Dee?A mug to drain? Will we renew?The dreams of all we hoped to do??Our Cotswold