Men seldom fight the things they do not hate; A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn; Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate; You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait, And change his nature with to-morrow's morn. If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go; Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign; Honor and shame together cannot grow, Sin either conquers or we lay it low, Wrong must be hated if the truth remain. I hold that we must fight this war in hate-- In bitter hate of blood in fury spilled; Of children, bending over book and slate, Slaughtered to make a Prussian despot great; In hate of mothers pitilessly killed. In hate of liars plotting wars for gain; In hate of crimes too black for printed page; In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign-- And crush forever all within his train. Such hate shall be the glory of our age. General Pershing He isn't long on speeches. At the banquet table, he Could name a dozen places where he would much rather be. He's not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review, But he's busy every minute when he's got a job to do. And you'll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square For the glory of his country when his boys get over there. He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France, And he knows that he's the leader of America's advance, And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail, So he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail. And you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare, And he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there. He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep O'er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep, And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers, With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears. He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share, And he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there. The Better Thing It is better to die for the flag, For its red and its white and its blue, Than to hang back and shirk and to lag And let the flag sink out of view. It is better to give up this life In the heat and the thick of the strife Than to live out your days 'neath a sky, Where Old Glory shall never more fly. The peace that we long for will be Far worse than the war that we dread If never again we're to see The blue, and the white and the red Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies. If ever the Stars and Stripes dies Or loses its lustre and pride, We shall wish in our souls we had died.