The wheels of the earth have gone, alack! Deep into war’s mire and muck. If you want to put it again on its track, Don’t shift your load on another man’s back: Don’t pass the buck. SONG OF THE AVIATOR You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed, You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean, You may rush afar in your touring car, Leaping, sweeping, by things that are creeping— But you never will know the joy of motion Till you rise up over the earth some day, And soar like an eagle, away—away. High and higher above each spire, Till lost to sight is the tallest steeple, With the winds you chase in a valiant race, Looping, swooping, where mountains are grouping, Hailing them comrades, in place of people. Oh! vast is the rapture the birdman knows, As into the ether he mounts and goes. He is over the sphere of human fear; He has come into touch with things supernal. At each man’s gate death stands await; And dying, flying, were better than lying In sick-beds, crying for life eternal. Better to fly half-way to God Than to burrow too long like a worm in the sod. THE STEVEDORES We are the army stevedores, lusty and virile and strong, We are given the hardest work of the war, and the hours are long. We handle the heavy boxes, and shovel the dirty coal; While soldiers and sailors work in the light, we burrow below like a mole. But somebody has to do this work, or the soldiers could not fight! And whatever work is given a man, is good if he does it right. We are the army stevedores, and we are volunteers. We did not wait for the draft to come, to put aside our fears; We flung them away on the winds of fate, at the very first call of our land, And each of us offered a willing heart and the strength of a brawny hand. We are the army stevedores, and work as we must and may, The cross of honour will never be ours to proudly wear away. But the men at the Front could never be there, And the battles could not be won, If the stevedores stopped in their dull routine And left their work undone. Somebody has to do this work; be glad that it isn’t you! We are the army stevedores—give us our due! A SONG OF HOME I am singing a song to the boys to-day, A song of the home that is far away. And I know that an echo the word is waking In many a heart that is secretly aching, Yes, almost breaking, thinking of Home, dear Home. But thought, dear boys, is a carrier dove, And it flies straight into the hearts you love.