His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep. The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain. He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free; The League of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again? THE KINGS HUGH J. HUGHES IN FARM, STOCK AND HOME The Kings are dying! In blood and flame Their sun is setting to rise no more! They have played too long at the ancient game Of their bluer blood and the bolted door. Now the blood of their betters is on their hands-- The blood of the peasant, the child, the maid; And there are no waters in all the lands Can bathe them clean of the dark stain laid. They have sinned in malice and craven fear-- For the sake of their tinsel have led us on To the hate-built trench and the death-drop sheer, But the day will come when the Kings are gone. The Kings are dying! Beat, O drums, The world-wide roll of the democrat! O bugles, cry out for the day that comes When the Kings that were shall be marveled at! JEAN DESPREZ ROBERT W. SERVICE From “Rhymes of a Red Cross Man,” by Robert W. Service, published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance, Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, Could feel within his soul upleap and soar, the sacred flame; Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin’s black abyss; The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez. “Rout out of the village, one and all!” the Uhlan Captain said. “Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay.”