The Stars and Stripes they bear aloft To join the British flag, And, with the colors of brave France, They mean to end “Der Tag.” And soon, my boy, that service flag, Born in the nation’s heart, Will show the world that, when unfurled, We proudly take our part.
Poems need not be rhymed, nor wrought in verses. This brave and touching one occurred in a letter written by a French schoolgirl:
“It was only a little river; almost a brook; it was called the Yser. One could talk from one side to the other without raising one’s voice, and the birds could fly over it with one sweep of their wings. And on the two banks there were millions of men, the one toward the other, eye to eye. But the distance which separated them was greater than the stars in the sky; it was the distance which separates right from injustice.
“The ocean is so vast that the sea gulls do not dare to cross it. During seven days and seven nights the great steamships of America, going at full speed, drive through the deep waters before the lighthouses of France come into view; but from one side to the other, hearts are touching.”
We whom the draft rejected; We who stay by the stuff; We who measure our manhood And find that it isn’t enough; We who are gray and burdened; We whom the trades require-- Will you permit us to hail you, Men of the Blood and Mire?
We of the thundering forum; We of the pen and press; We who are pouring our utmost Into our land’s success; We of the Cross and Triangle, Lofty in deed and desire-- God, how we shrivel before you, Men of the Blood and Mire!
Aye, we are square with conscience-- We are reservists all; Aye, when your ranks are gaping, We will fight where you fall; Yet, while we wait, your altar Flames in the gas and fire-- We are the shade of your glory, Men of the Blood and Mire!
Large numbers of Australian and New Zealand volunteers are already on the water bound for Vancouver, en route for Europe.--Paragraph of War News, 1915.
Oh, Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you-- Land of yellow wattle bloom, land of smiling Spring-- Hearken to the after words, land of pleasant memories, Shea-oaks of the shady creeks, hear the song we sing. For we lie quietly, underneath the lonely hills, Where the land is silent, where the guns have ceased to boom, Here we are waiting, and shall wait for Eternity-- Here on the battle-fields, where we found our doom.