Mike Dillon was a doughboy And wore the issue stuff; He wasn’t much to look at-- In fact, was rather rough; He served his time as rookie-- At drilling in the sun, And cleared a lot of timber And polished up his gun. Mike Dillon was a private With all the word entails; He cussed and chewed tobacco And overlooked his nails. You never saw Mike Dillon At dances ultra nice; In fact, inspection found him Enjoying body lice. If Mike had married money Or had a little drag, He might have got a brevet And missed a little “fag”; But as a social figure He simply wasn’t there-- So Mike continued drilling And knifing up his fare. In course of time they shipped ’em And shipped ’em over where A man like Mike can sidestep The frigid social stare, And do the job of soldier Without the fancy frills, And keep a steady footing In the pace that really kills. Now Mike did nothing special; He only did his best: He stuck and “went on over”-- And got it in the chest; He played it fair and squarely Without a social air, And Mike is now in heaven And at least a corporal there! WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS ANONYMOUS IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE There’s a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons, In a certain nameless city’s quaint old square. It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes, And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer. When it starts “Ave Maria” there is no one in the throng But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise; And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong, There is flung out on the breeze “La Marseillaise”? When it starts to render “Sambre et Meuse,” the march that won the day At the battle of the Marne, one sees again The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array Of our gallant sister-ally’s blue-clad men. And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear-- While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel That, though tongues and ways may vary, we’ve found brothers over here, Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel. For it’s olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side, Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square; And it’s olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide, That will blaze the way to victory “up there.” So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our troth To the Cause--the world set free!--for which we fight. As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki both, And the bugles die away into the night. THE OLD GANG ON THE CORNER WILLIAM HERSCHELL IN COLLIER’S WEEKLY Permission to reproduce in this book