War Rhymes | Page 7

little man got none,?One little man cried see, see, see,?You'll eat brown bread?Till the war is done.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,?Stole a pig and away he run,?"High cost of meat?I've got you beat,"?Said Tom, while making his retreat.
Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill,?And fought on land and water,?Till Nick fell down and lost his crown,?And Bill went tumbling after.
There was a crooked man?Who wore a crooked smile,?And built a crooked railroad?O'er many a crooked mile,?He got some crooked statesmen?To play his crooked games,?And they all got crooked titles?Before their crooked names.

Sing a song of sixpence,?Country going dry,?Four and twenty booze shops?Selling no more rye.
When the bars were open,?Whiskey had its fling,?Now we ride the water cart,?Along with George, our king.
Once dad, in the bar room,?Counted out his money,?Weary mother sat at home,?Patching clothes for sonny.
Now dad's in the garden?Wearing out his clothes,?Money in his pocket,?Bloom all off his nose.
=Miscellaneous=
BEDLAM
October, 1914
"The world is mad, my masters,"?The poet had the facts?To prove this sweeping statement,?In man's punk-headed acts;?For since the day when Adam?Partook of the wrong tree,?We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered;?"What fools these mortals be".
Take out your horse or auto,?And drive the country roads,?And see the fields and orchards?Bearing their precious loads.?Old Mother Earth produces?With lavish hand and free,?But half is lost or ruined?By man's stupidity.
Ten thousand tons of apples?Will surely go to waste?While poor folk in the cities?Will hardly get a taste.?We take good wheat and barley?And manufacture bums,?Whose wives and little children?Are starving in the slums.
The man that's poor as woodwork,?And nearly always broke,?Can somehow find a nickel?To puff away in smoke;?While those who have the money?To eat and drink their fills,?Are sure to over-do it,?And run up doctor bills.
If, when the times are peaceful?I kill one man, by heck!?They'll call it bloody murder,?And hang me by the neck.?In war-time he's a hero,?Who sends through air or sea?A bomb to blow a thousand?Into Eternity.
And so, dear gentle reader,?You see, by all the rules,?That earth's whole population?Except ourselves are fools.
THE CERTAINTIES
When icy blasts blow fierce and wild,?Cutting the face like steel,?And summer's heart is trodden down?'Neath winter's iron heel,?It's all a part of Nature's plan,?So stay and play the game;?Next Spring will bring the violets,?And roses just the same.
When Pharaoh's lean ill-favored kine?Have grazed the pastures brown.?And, on a parched and starving world?The brazen sun glares down;?Though Canaan's forests, fields and farms,?Are scorched, as with a flame,?There's food in Joseph's granaries?In Egypt just the same.
When Pharaoh makes the task more hard?For overburdened hands,?And stubble fields refuse the straw?His tale of bricks demands;?What matter if our little lives?Go out in fear and shame??The waters of the mighty Nile?Flow onward just the same.
When, at the front, to bar the way,?The Red Sea waters stand,?And Egypt's hosts are close behind,?A fierce relentless band;?Intent their firstborn to avenge,?Their Hebrew slaves to claim:?Look up, and see the pyramids,?Firm standing, just the same.
When human ghouls hell's lid uplift?To plunder, burn and kill,?And Truth seems driven from her throne,?Say to your heart, "Be still!"?Don't think that Freedom's day is done,?And Honor but a name,?For right still reigns and planets gleam?In Heaven just the same.
THE FRIENDLY SPIES
A Tale of Camp Borden
November, 1916
The main camping ground of the Huron Indians was near where Camp Borden is now situated.
Where soldiers build their camp fires,?At night there gather 'round?The 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