The Old Gang on the Corner! What an arrant tribe they were; The Widow Kelly’s Connie--he had always worried her! The Schultz boys, Jake and Rudy; the parson’s own, Chub Smith, “Who,” sister told the neighbors, “they can’t do nothin’ with.” Young Tony Boots, the Dago, and Scamp, the tinner’s son-- To them a mischief thought of was a mischief quickly done. The Old Gang on the Corner! In the arc light’s friendly glow They trooped each night till Tim the Cop came by and made them go. But all that now is ended, for the Sword of Hate is drawn-- The Old Gang on the Corner from its happy haunt is gone. The street lamp idly sputters; Tim, the lonely, walks his beat, His good heart well ahunger for the Old Gang in the street. The Old Gang on the Corner! Now each loyal mother brags No other neighborhood can boast as many service flags. Con Kelly’s won a sergeantcy; the parson’s black-sheep son Has had his picture printed for heroic deeds he’s done. The Schultz boys, in the navy, though they yet are in their teens, Are mates with Scamp and Tony in the chase for submarines. The Old Gang on the Corner! Yes, we’ve all forgotten now The Hallowe’en they calcimined McDougall’s muley cow, We’ve put aside the memories of cream and cake they stole When our church had a festival to pay for last year’s coal. All that is in the Yesterday--they’re now our fighting men-- And, God, won’t we be happy if they all come home again? THE BATTLE-LINE J. B. DOLLARD IN THE GLOBE, TORONTO Permission to reproduce in this book Athwart that land of bloss’ming vine Stretches the awful battle-line; A lark hangs singing in the sky, With sullen shrapnel bursting nigh! Along the poplar-bordered road The peasant trudges with his load, While horsemen and artillery Rush to red fields that are to be! The plains for tillage furrowed well Are now replowed with shot and shell! The ditches, swollen by the rain, Show bloated faces of the slain. The hedge-rows sweet with leaf and flower Now mask the cannon’s murderous power! Small birds by household cares opprest Beg truce and time to build their nest. The sun sinks down--oh, blest release! And the spent world cries out for peace, In vain! In vain! Tho’ mild stars shine, War wakes the thundering battle-line. A CHANT OF ARMY COOKS ANONYMOUS IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE We never were made to be seen on parade When sweethearts and such line the streets; When the band starts to blare, look for us--we ain’t there-- We’re mussing around with the eats. It’s fun to step out to the echoing shout Of a crowd that forgets how you’re fed, While we’re soiling our duds hacking eyes out of spuds-- You know what Napoleon said.