War Rhymes by Wayfarer Part 7

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 h.e.l.l 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 Ma.s.sachusetts Means poverty in France.

Columbia, my sister, I know your heart is right, Though on your head has fallen This h.e.l.lish 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 hards.h.i.+ps came His face was always glad, Until, by chance, somewhere in France, He saw a "Hometown Sun,"

He read one page, then in a rage He strafed it like a Hun.

The girl he loved had faithless proved, And German slacker wed; That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke, He wished that he were dead.

He who had been so straight and clean, And every fellow's chum, Now lived apart with hardened heart, And soaked himself with rum.

'Mid rats and mice and fleas and lice He spent his days and nights; Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood, He fought a hundred fights; His faith was lost, the angel host Of Mons he didn't see; No Comrade White beheld his plight, With loving sympathy.

The devil strip, where bullets zipp, The narrow neutral band Where man to man they fight and plan To win that "No Man's Land"; Here Jim would go to hunt the foe, He thought it only fun, And that day lost that couldn't boast Another slaughtered Hun.

His awful deeds so say the creeds, Jim's bright young manhood marred; His health was sound, he got no wound, But sin his spirit scarred.

Some lost their health, some lost their wealth, Of all war took its toll, Some lost their life in b.l.o.o.d.y strife, Jim only lost his soul.

THE ORGY OF THOR

The war G.o.d calls, whate'er befalls His orders must be filled, Though work may stop in mine and shop, And farms may lie untilled.

At his command each human hand Must toil to pay the price In coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat, Oil, cotton, corn or rice.

From pole to pole he takes control Of land, and air, and tide, Then death and dearth fill all the earth, And h.e.l.l's gate opens wide.

Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands No white man ever saw, Bring all their spoil, with endless toil, To fill the monster's maw.

O'er ice and snow the huskies go, Beneath the northern star, And gather toll, a scanty dole, To pay the G.o.d of war.

From out the States go mighty freights Of cotton, corn and oil; From West to East, to feed the beast, The people save and toil.

The West's astir, the binders whirr Around the settler's shack; The threshers hum, lest winter come Before the wheat's in sack.

The bullocks strain on loaded wain, Piled high with bales of wool, A season's clip from shed to s.h.i.+p; The cargo must be full.

The drivers swear, the bulls by pair Plunge panting through the dust, Like things accurst they die of thirst The war G.o.ds say they must.

Where battle fields dread harvests yield The war G.o.d's revels be, Where blood runs red, he counts the dead, And shrieks and howls in glee.

With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs The precious crimson tide; He'll drink his fill, nor rest until His blood l.u.s.t's satisfied.

MOTES AND BEAMS

We condemn, with hot curses, the Hun For his piracy, perjury, pride, For his nameless atrocities done, For the ten million victims that died.

Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies, When the day of our victory comes, While pale children, with piteous cries, Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.

We despite the degenerate Yank With his blood-spattered idol of gold, Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank, And political pottage has sold.

Then we send our poor boys to the war With a prayer that they keep themselves clean, And we purchase a s.h.i.+ning new car, Praying harder for cheap gasoline.

We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks; They must learn to be true to their friends; They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks, Using war for their own selfish ends.

But our grafters their pockets may fill, While valiantly waving the flag, Caring nothing who settles the bill, If they only get off with the swag.

We abhor the unspeakable Turk, For his orgies of murder and shame, His detestable devilish work Done in honor of Allah's fair name; Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed, While afar off the publican stood, But forget the Creator has made All the children of men of one blood.