Upon the good I render Let shine your proudest sun: And rest me in the valleys When my last trick is done. For these your utmost portions, I’ll pay the utmost toll, So this my life, become the great Adventure of my soul!
On the battlefields of Flanders men have blessed you in their pain; For you told us Who was with us, and your words were not in vain.
All you said was very gentle, but we felt you knew our ways; And we tried to find the Footprints we had missed in other days.
When we found Those blood-stained Footsteps, we have followed to the End; For we know that only Death can show the features of our Friend.
In the Mansions of the Master, He will make the meaning plain Of the battlefields of Flanders, of the Crucifix of Pain.
They’ve put us through our paces; They say we’re doing fine; We’ll soon go to our places Upon the firing-line. Some chaps will fight for mothers, And some for wives so true; For sweethearts many others, And I will fight for you!
Through all these months of training We’ve cherished hopeful thoughts And drilled without complaining, Like soldiers and good sports. We’re warring for a reason, We’ve sworn to see this through; To falter would be treason, And I will fight for you!
Your presence will be near me, Your voice will call my name; You’ll comfort me and cheer me, Your love, behold, I claim! ’Twould take more than an ocean To separate us two; I’ll hold unto this notion, And I will fight for you!
IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB’S MAGAZINE
By blazing homes, through forests torn And blackened harvest fields, The grim and drunken god of war In frenzied fury reels.
His breath--the sulph’rous stench of guns-- That death and famine deals And Pity, pleading, wounded falls Beneath his steel-shod heels.
BY A MEMBER OF THE S. A. T. C., NORTHWESTERN COLLEGE, NAPERVILLE, ILL.
“Left! Left!” Had a good girl when I “Left! Left!” Mighty good pal when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” How many miles more? “Left!
“Left! Left!” Booked for a wife when I “Left! Left!” That was my life when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” Hear old Lieutenant roar “Left!”
Summer comes and summer goes, Buds the primrose, fades the rose; But his footfall on the grass, Coming swiftly to my door, I shall hear again no more, Though a thousand summers pass.