War Rhymes | Page 8

spirits of the Hurons
From Happy Hunting ground,
No sentry
hears their footsteps,
They need no countersigns;
As silent as the
moonlight,
They pass within the lines.
Fierce shine their dusky faces
As through the tents they glide,
Once
more they smell the war paint
And know a warrior's pride;
The
white man's modern weapons
Their ghostly fingers feel,
The guns
so swift and deadly,
The long sharp blades of steel.

They nod to one another,
Nor knew so wild a joy
Since, leagued
with the Algonquins,
They fought the Iroquois;
Among the sleeping
soldiers
They pass the silent night,
And nudge, and smile, and
whisper,
"White brother make big fight."
When shafts of light are breaking
Across the eastern sky,
They
wrap their mantles 'round them,
And breathe a soft "Good-bye",

Then vanish like the shadows
That lurk among the trees,
The sentry
hearing only
The sighing of the breeze.
JACK CANUCK TO UNCLE SAM
April, 1916
Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy,
All your pockets with
cartridges cram;
The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy,
Seem to
frighten you some, Uncle Sam.
You once were the first to get ready,

The most eager in Liberty's fight,
Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm
and steady,
When you battled for justice and right.
Time was when each star in Old Glory
Shone for freedom all round
the wide world.
The winds and the waves told the story

Wheresoever its folds were unfurled;
But now your good rifle is rusty,

All your work of long years is undone.
Old Glory, bedraggled and
dusty,
Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.
There once was a time, Uncle Sammy,
When the honor of sister or
wife,
E'en that of a poor negro mammy,
You'd defend, Uncle Sam,
with your life.
But now, what's the matter I wonder,
You see
womanhood treated like junk,
And think but of guarding your plunder:

Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?
It seems that your head isn't level,
With your Wilsons, and Bryans
and Fords,
You let things all go to the devil,
And protect your poor
people with words.

It can't be the killing that vexes,
And prevents

you from getting your gun,
You're lynching men now, down in Texas

For one tenth that the Kaiser has done.
SAMMY
April, 1918
Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow,
That Duffeldorf
blighter was running his show?
The fellow who hinted that Sammy
was slack,
With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back;
For
Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong,
('Twas Somebody's
blunder that held him so long)
He's just the right fellow, we're glad
that he came,
The chap that is yellow has some other name.
This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race,
He makes himself
handy in any old place:
Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good
song,
Or lick any German who happens along:
A single hand talker,
as good as the best,
A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest,
A
long distance hiker, who never goes lame;
He's not any piker
whatever the game.
There's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun,
He'll sure be a sticker
when facing the Hun;
Can camp in a palace, or live in a tent,
Drink
wine from a chalice, or eat meat in Lent;
Sweet tongued to the ladies
and kind to the kids,
Condemns things to Hades, when down by the
skids;
At home on the river, plantation or farm,
Sometimes a high
liver who does himself harm.
Abstemious, very, when prices are high,
He learns to be merry
without any pie;
An expert at poker, with money to spare,
A down
and out broker who plays solitaire;
An orator forceful, a whale to
invent,
O Sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent,
Though late in the
race, Sam, we wish you good luck,
Come on, take your place, Sam,
with Johnnie Canuck.

FRANCE TO COLUMBIA
November, 1916
Columbia, my sister,
Republic great and free,
When Liberty was
threatened
I looked in vain to thee;
That hope was vain, my sister,

You lost your greatest chance;
Men live on lies in Utah,
Men die
for truth in France.
Columbia, my sister,
You saw my blood run red,
My sons and
daughters murdered,
The tears my orphans shed;
You raised no
voice in protest,
To stop the Hun's advance;
Men live at ease in
Kansas,
With hell let loose in France.
Columbia, my sister,
Your children you have seen,
Drowned in the
cruel ocean
By German submarine;
But baseball is important,
The
theatre and dance,
And pleasure rules in Texas
While horror reigns
in France.
Columbia, my sister,
In sordid love of gain
Your vultures and
hyenas
Wax fat upon the slain;
The nations, sorrow stricken,

Receive your careless glance,
And wealth in Massachusetts
Means
poverty in France.
Columbia, my sister,
I know your heart is right,
Though on your
head has fallen
This hellish Hunnish blight;
I love you still, my
sister,
And warn you, lest perchance
The Huns may rule Wisconsin

When driven out of France.
JIM'S SACRIFICE
Jim marched away one summer day
To fight the boastful Hun,
In
khaki clad, as fine a lad
As ever carried gun,

No braver knight e'er
went to fight,
In shining coat of mail,
In days of old, for love or
gold,
Or for the Holy Grail.

His aim was sure, his heart was pure,
Like good Sir Galahad,
He
played the game when hardships came
His face was always glad,

Until, by chance, somewhere in France,
He