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World Wars

Trees
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. ...

The Tommy
John Masefield, the English writer, says, St. George did not ...

The Yank
The boche went into the war as a robber, the poilu as a crusa...

The Poilu
The soldier of France, the poilu, is a crusader. He is fight...

The United States Marines
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze From dawn to setti...

The Searchlights
Political morality differs from individual morality, because ...

Duty
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man...

A Carol From Flanders
1914 In Flanders on the Christmas morn The trench...

Harry Lauder Sings
Harry Lauder, an extremely popular Scotch singer and entertai...

After-days
When the last gun has long withheld Its thunder, and i...

Just Before The Tide Turned
On the 27th of last May the Germans broke through the French ...

The Fleet That Lost Its Soul
Sailors and especially fighters on the sea have in all ages p...

Redeemed Italy
Italy, since 1860 at least, has cherished the dream that some...

Sergeant York Of Tennessee
People will always differ as to what was the most remarkable ...

Where The Four Winds Meet
There are songs of the north and songs of the south, A...

The Second Line Of Defense
In Norwich, England, stands a memorial which will forever be ...

Bombing Metz
ADAPTED FROM THE ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY RAOUL LUFBERY In Janua...

Song Of The Aviator
(This poem was written for an entertainment given by the Y.M....

A Boy Of Perugia
In the year 1500, Raphael was a boy of eighteen in Perugia wo...

The Capture Of Dun
After the Americans had cleared the Saint Mihiel salient, Mar...



The Call To Arms In Our Street






There's a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that's called to leave her,
--God have pity on the poor!
But it's beat, drums, beat,
While the lads march down the street,
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Keep your tears until they go.

There's a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it's fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So it's beat, drums, beat;
And who will find them food to eat?
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Oh, it's little children know.

* * * * *

There's a young girl who stands laughing,
For she thinks a war is grand,
And it's fine to see the lads pass,
And it's fine to hear the band.
So it's beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet;
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go.

W. M. LETTS.





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