The little home paper comes to me, 15 The magpies in Picardy, 130 The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills, 182 The nightingales of Flanders, 50 The old flag is a-doin’ her very level best, 151 The Old Gang on the Corner! What an arrant tribe they were, 64 The outfield is a-creepin’ in to catch the kaiser’s pop, 177 The rivers of France are ten score and twain, 79 The sick man said: “I pray I shall not die, 133 The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door;, 78 The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold:, 17 The sunny streets of Oxford, 115 The war is over, over there, 197 The wind today is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing, 200 There are some that go for love of a fight, 96 There is a hill in England, 60 There’s a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons, 63 There’s a rumble an’ a jumble an’ a humpin’ an’ a thud, 26 There used to be a boy next door, 172 There will be dreams again! The grass will spread, 171 They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and who died out there:, 136 They knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years, 52 They shall not pass, While Britain’s sons draw breath, 125 They shall return when the wars are over, 179 They’ve put us through our paces;, 69 This is the song of the Plane--, 190 Thou art no longer here, 90 Through the dark night and the fury of battle, 84 ’Tis a green isle set in a silver water, 180 Trotting the roan horse, 170 Twenty years of the army, of drawing a sergeant’s pay, 38 Unfurl the flag of Freedom, 98 Up among the chimneys tall, 49 Was there ever a game we did not share, 91 We had forgotten You, or very nearly--, 55 We never were made to be seen on parade, 66 We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights, 59 West to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes, 123 We whom the draft rejected, 160 What are we fighting for, men of my race, 165 When I return, let us be very still, 33 When the shells are bursting round, 174 Who was it, picked from civil life, 127 Why do we love our flag? Ask why flowers love the sunshine, 173 Within this nation-hallowed tomb, 202 Write us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale, 193 Yes, back at home I used to drive a tram;, 97 You’re a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap, 95 You see that young kid lying there, 124 “You’ve heard a good deal of the telephone wires”, 57 Readings and Monologues à la Mode By WALTER BEN HARE Thirty-two platform selections in prose and verse, ranging from humor to pathos, and affording an excellent repertoire for the versatile entertainer. [Illustration]