War Rhymes by Wayfarer Part 11

King Victor's brave Italians Are driving back pell-mell The Austrian battalions And weiners will not sell.

The Belgians, too, are holding Their end up with the rest, They hear the Teutons scolding, Bologna's past its best.

Roumanians, and others, Who now are standing pat Will call the allies brothers When lager beer goes flat.

TROUBLE IN THE TRENCHES

The true story of the difficulty on the Russian front.

September, 1917

When Slav and Russ had raised a fuss, And sent their Czar a-kiting, Said Givinski to Blatherski, "We've done enough of fighting."

"I've got a cough," wheezed Killmanoff, "From working in the trenches, I'd rather fight a doggoned sight, Than put up with the stenches.

I want to quit and take a sit In some place clean and brighter, Let those who like come down the pike To strafe the German blighter."

"I've got the itch," growled Dirtovitch, "Bog spavin and lumbago."

"I'm never dry," swore Goshallski, "I smell worse than a Dago."

"This cheese is high," grouched b.u.t.tinski, "No hungry rat would eat it."

"This meat is tough," whined Ivanuff, "I think we ought to beat it."

"It makes me mad," stormed Hazembad, "The prevalence of vermin."

"You've said it right," owned Gotabite, "I'm lousy as a German."

Said Takemoff, "Our lives are rough In these here blooming ditches, But mine's the worst by half a verst, Since some guy stole my breeches."

Their pay was back, their belts were slack, Each man his troubles blurted.

With empty guns to face the Huns, Small wonder they deserted.

THE WORs.h.i.+PPERS

Wo Sing was just a heathen blind, A dull insensate clod, Yet somehow to his darkened mind, There came a thought of G.o.d.

He shaped an idol out of clay, And to it bowed his knee; No one had taught him how to pray, Alas, the poor Chinee!

An artist took his brush and paint, And on his canvas board, He wrought a picture of a saint, And called it Christ the Lord; With patient hand, and wondrous skill, Retouched that kindly face, But thought it ever lacking still, In majesty and grace.

A preacher in his pulpit stood, (His words the people trust,) His message was that G.o.d is good, And knows mankind is dust.

He drew a picture of a Lord, Omniscient, pure and kind, His thoughts, His purposes, His word, Too high for human mind.

The Kaiser has conceived a G.o.d, To rule o'er sea and land, With strong, remorseless, iron rod, In Hohenzollern hand; A G.o.d who honors lies and fraud, And mean hypocrisy, A boastful, b.l.o.o.d.y, brutal G.o.d, The G.o.d of Germany.

And thus we all our idols make, As our conception is, And pray our Father, but to take, Our helpless hands in His; To give us each a ray of hope, To each a message bring, Each king and kaiser, priest and pope, Each humble poor Wo Sing.

TO JEAN BAPTISTE

O Jean Baptiste! do not resist The military act, Jean; You like to fight, the cause is right, (You know this is a fact, Jean.) When tasks are hard, 'tis not, old pard.

Your way to ever s.h.i.+rk, Jean; The saw-log jam, mills, woods and dam All tell how well you work, Jean.

It isn't fear that keeps you here, You're active, brave and strong, Jean; But in this sc.r.a.p, by some mishap, We got you going wrong, Jean.

In dear old France, the Huns advance With bullet, bomb and gas, Jean, It's hardly square that you're not there; (Hank Boura.s.sa's an a.s.s, Jean.)

That we may win, you must begin To help more in this fight, Jean, The die is cast, forget our past Intolerance and spite, Jean, The things you love may worthless prove, If you don't get your gun, Jean; Your woods, and mines, your homes and shrines, May all go to the Hun, Jean.

Our kinsmen brave, across the wave, The Kaiser have defied, Jean, British and French, in b.l.o.o.d.y trench, Are fighting side by side, Jean.

Where duty leads, what matter creeds, Or what baptismal font, Jean?

So let us sing--"Long live the king"

And join the bonne entente, Jean.

THE LOST TRIBES

We read about the tribes dispersed, That Israelitish host, Condemned and exiled, sin-accursed, Among the Gentiles lost, We wonder what strange paths they walk, In what far land they dwell, Where now does Reuben feed his flock, And Joseph buy and sell?

In search of them we vainly roam Through distant, foreign states, Then find a people nearer home With all the Hebrew traits.

They seize the heathen nations' land, And hold it by the sword, And deem themselves a righteous band.

The chosen of the Lord.

They deem themselves a righteous band, And for religion's sake They bravely compa.s.s sea and land One proselyte to make.

They drive poor Hagar from their homes The wilderness to search, While Abraham, forsooth, becomes A pillar in the church.

They scorn their dreaming brother's right To visions he may have, And to the warring Ishmaelite They sell him as a slave.

Unmoved they hear the cry of pain, Old Jacob's wailing note, "An evil beast my son has slain, There's blood on Joseph's coat."

When wearied on the desert track, With hunger faint and weak, Egyptian flesh pots lure them back, The garlic and the leek.

The fruitful promised land they view, But fear to enter in.

And wander still, a faithless crew, The Wilderness of Sin.

Their enemies before them flee.

Their foemen's gates they hold, But Esau's birthright still we see To crafty Jacob sold.

They wors.h.i.+p Aaron's golden calf, But scorn his priestly rod, And when from Marah's springs they quaff, They murmur against G.o.d.