Part 15 (1/2)

Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves--to-day.

'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands-- Not distant lands-- Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it---not the foe; If it shall fall, We, first of all, Shall have to strike the blow.

The Unsettled Scores

The men are talking peace at 'ome, but 'ere we're talking fight, There's many a little debt we've got to square; A sniper sent a bullet through my bunkie's 'ead last night, And 'is body's lying somewhere h'over there.

Oh, we 'ear a lot of rumors that the war is h'almost through But Hi'm thinking that it's only arf begun; Every soldier in the trenches has a little debt that's due And Hi'm telling you it's not a money one.

We 'ave 'eard the bullets whistle and we've 'card the shrapnel sing And we've listened to a dying comrade's pleas, And we've 'eard about the comfort that the days of peace will bring, But we've debts that can't be settled h'over seas.

They that 'aven't slept in trenches, 'aven't brothered with the worms, 'Aven't 'ad a bunkie slaughtered at their side, May some day get together and arrange some sort of terms, But it isn't likely we'll be satisfied.

There are debts we want to settle, 'and to 'and, and face to face, There are one or two Hi've promised that Hi'd square; And Hi cannot 'old my 'ead up, 'ere or in the other place, Till Hi've settled for my bunkie, lying there.

Warriors

We all are warriors with sin. Crusading knights, we come to earth With spotless plumes and s.h.i.+ning s.h.i.+elds to joust with foes and prove our worth.

The world is but a battlefield where strong and weak men fill the lists, And some make war with humble prayers, and some with swords and some with fists.

And some for pleasure or for peace forsake their purposes and goals And barter for the scarlet joys of ease and pomp, their knightly souls.

We're all enlisted soldiers here, in service for the term called life And each of us in some grim way must bear his portion of the strife.

Temptations everywhere a.s.sail. Men do not rise by fearing sin, Nor he who keeps within his tent, unharmed, unscratched, the crown shall win.

When wrongs are trampling mortals down and rank injustice stalks about, Real manhood to the battle flies, and dies or puts the foes to rout.

'Tis not the new and s.h.i.+ning blade that marks the soldier of the field, His glory is his broken sword, his pride the scars upon his s.h.i.+eld; The crimson stains that sin has left upon his soul are tongues that speak The victory of new found strength by one who yesterday was weak.

And meaningless the spotless plume, the s.h.i.+ning blade that goes through life And quits this naming battlefield without one evidence of strife.

We all are warriors with sin, we all are knights in life's crusades, And with some form of tyranny, we're sent to earth to measure blades.

The courage of the soul must gleam in conflict with some fearful foe, No man was ever born to life its luxuries alone to know.

And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward garb unsoiled And fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his soul decayed and spoiled.

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye Or a legless form I see, I breathe my thanks to my G.o.d on High For His watchful care o'er me.

And I say to myself, as the cripple goes Half stumbling on his way: I may brag and boast, but that brother knows Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den Puffing one of my many pipes That I've served with all of my fellow men The glorious Stars and Stripes.

Then I see a troop in the faded blue And a few in the dusty gray, And I have to laugh at the deeds I do For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire, The sport of the blazing sun, Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire As the tides of battle run, And I fancy I hear their piteous calls For merciful death, and then The cannons cease and the darkness falls, And those fluttering things are men.