Why, no one ever thought to take Jim seriously, the reckless rake! But when the time to charge had come, Jim left the trench, along with some More daring chaps, and crawling, spanned The hell that they call “No Man’s Land.” They cut the tangled wires away, Then our men charged, but there Jim lay-- What is it that the Scriptures say About the chap that offers up His all, and drinks the bitter cup-- That’s how I like to think of Jim, The glory that is left of him. THE CROWN HELEN COMBES IN LESLIE’S WEEKLY Write us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale, Learned on the field of battle, where bullets fell like hail. Pen us the ghastly story, of thousands of slaughtered men, Till our souls are sick with horror. And then, oh, soldier, then, Tell us in tender accents, how men with hearts of gold Succored their wounded brothers; stripped in the biting cold To cover the dead and dying. Give us our faith again, Our belief in a God Almighty, in a Brotherhood of Man. Paint us a canvas, soldier, a picture of fire and flame! Men, mad with the lust of killing, playing their grisly game! Show us the dead-strewn hillsides, guarding the blood-drenched plain, A picture of war’s grim horrors. And then, oh, soldier, then, Draw us the white-capped nurses, doctors with skilful hands, Counting their lives as nothing when human need demands All that they have to offer. Paint us the women and men Who bring the joy of living back to our hearts again. Sing us a song, oh, soldier, chant in a martial strain, Those who have died in battle, those who come home again. Call us the mothers of heroes, call us the mothers of men, Till our hearts are torn and bleeding. And then, oh, soldier, then, Play us in minor cadence, a harp with a tautened string, Set to a heavenly music, the songs the angels sing, Of a world by Love safeguarded, where wars shall ever cease, Sing us at last oh, soldier, the Song of Eternal Peace. OUR SOLDIER DEAD ANNETTE KOHN IN NEW YORK TIMES Permission to reproduce in this book “In Flanders fields, where poppies blow,” In France where beauteous roses grow, There let them rest--forever sleep, While we eternal vigil keep With our heart’s love--with our soul’s pray’r, For all our Fallen “Over There.” The sounding sea between us rolls And in perpetual requiem tolls-- Three thousand miles of cheerless space Lie ’twixt us and their resting place; ’Twas God who took them by the hand And left them in the stranger land. The earth is sacred where they fell-- Forever on it lies the spell Of hero deeds in Freedom’s cause, And men unborn shall come and pause To say a prayer, or bow the head, So leave these graves to hold their dead.