Trench Ballads and Other Verses Part 9

And then you'd be surprised to hear The change of pace, the s.h.i.+ft o' gear, The dainty tales that just begin- When Nurse comes in.

CHARLIE CHAPLIN IN BLIGHTY.

The mess-hall windows blanketed To bar the western light- The tables cleaned and cleared away, And bench by bench in close array Five hundred convalescents sway To catch the caption bright.

And there are men with helpless legs, And torn chest and back; And men with arms in sling and splint, And one poor eye that bears no glint, And muscles limp or turned to flint- And souls upon the rack.

They came from Chateau Thierry- From Fere-en-Tardenois- From Soissons, Oulchy-le-Chateau, From Rheims and Fismes, where blow by blow, 'Cross Marne and Oureq and Vesle aflow They hammered them afar.

And now upon the screen is thrown An old familiar form: 'Tis Charlie of the strong appeal, At skating-rink or riot meal, And every mirth-producing reel Awakes the farthest dorm.

The aching head, the splintered arm, The weary, dragging feet; The wound that took a month to drain- The everlasting, gnawing pain- Are all forgot and gone again When Charlie strikes the street.

Your esoteric shrug and sneer And call him crude and quaint; But we who've seen him "over here"- Who've heard the laugh that brings the tear- Who've heard the bellowing roar and cheer- _We_ call him Charles the Saint.

TWO WORLDS.

Here in the Jardin des Plantes of Nantes I sit in the nickering shade, Watching the scampering children play- And the way of a man and a maid- And the n.o.ble women of France in the black Of a Nation unafraid.

The lace of the shadows across the paths Where the warm sun niters through, And the open vista between the trees, With the swan pond half in view, And the flowers and sloping lawns and the pines 'Neath an arch of Brittany's blue.

The air is soft as a day in June, The blossoms manifold Throw streaks and patches of rainbow hue Across the green and gold, And earth and sky in witchery Entwine you in their hold.

And it comes to me, Can it really be But two full moons have fled, Since I limped from a scarred and riven field Where lay the newly dead, Bathed in the light of a splendid fight, And blotched with their blood's own red.

A world of crimson slaughter Where the grim locked legions sway- And the mad machine guns whistle Their endless roundelay- And the sinister sound of the thundering pound Of the great guns night and day.

Night and day, night and day, With scarce a pause between, As out of the empty dark a voice From the farthest hills unseen, Comes whirling, swirling, shrieking down Where the helpless front lines lean.

The air is soft as a morn in June- The filmy shadows sway; And only the joyous music Of the prattle of children at play, And the gentle rustle of whispering leaves That tell of the closing day.

EMBARKATION HOME.

If you're a homebound soldier Who's done his little best, And you are going 'board the boat At St. Nazaire or Brest, Bordeaux or any other port, Steam-up and headed west:

If you are full o' the joy o' life And "pep" and all that stuff; And the ozone permeates your soul And makes you gay and bluff, Don't turn and yell, "Who won the War?- The M Ps,"-Can that guff.

For the M Ps are a sacred caste That boss the city street A hundred miles behind the Lines Where dangers never greet, Nor roaming sh.e.l.ls come swirling by, Nor surging first waves meet.

So if the long, tense session Of soul-engulfing war, And "Prussian" discipline and rule, And heart-enslaving law Say, "Open wide the throttle Of lung and throat and jaw"-

Repress that natural impulse, For you're not human-yet: Sedately up the gangplank walk, Eyes front and lips tight set, Or you'll come back and spend six weeks In a mud-dump, nice and wet.

The wind is blowing 'cross the bow, The first smoke lags alee- The sun that's broken through the clouds Is dancing on the sea, So, homebound soldier, watch your step, And take advice from me.

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY.

Sing of the Venus de Milo, The lady without any arms; Sing of the Venus of this and of that, And tell of their marvelous charms: Rave of your wonderful statues, In divers lands here o'er the sea, In bushels and reams, but the Girl of our Dreams Is our G.o.dmother, Miss Liberty.

Its contour may not be perfection- Its technique we really don't know- If you ever asked, "Who was the artist?"

It would come as a _terrible_ blow.

But to us it is home, friends and Country, To us it means all that is best, 'Tis the first that lifts out of the waters Of "Our little Gray Home in the West."

'Tis the first on that endless horizon Where the clouds meet the wind driven spume, And the scavenger gulls wing to greet us From out of the gathering gloom- 'Tis the first that calls beckoning to us Through the mist of the swaggering sea- "Oh lay down your guns my knight-errant sons, And come back to the bosom of me."

PART II. PRE-WAR POEMS.

TO FRANCE-1917.

The sea that kisses France's sh.o.r.e, It beats on yours and mine.

Her love and faith and chivalry, That sparkle as her wine, With all our faith and all our love Commingling combine.

The colors of the flag of France Are ours by hue and hue: The blazing red of courage- The white of purpose true, And constancy and loyalty Awoven in the blue.