If it's wrong to believe in the land that we love And to pray for Our Flag to the good God above; If it's wrong to believe that Our Country is best; That honor's her standard, and truth is her crest; If placing her first in our prayers and our song Is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong. If it's wrong to wish victory day after day For the troops of Our Country now marching away; If it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right And not by the love and the lure of the fight; If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong. If it's wrong to believe in America's dreams Of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems; If it's error to cherish the hope, through and through, That the Stars in Old Glory's immaculate blue Shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men, We pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen. War's Homecoming We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France, And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance, The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away, We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray. We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land, But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand. There, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped, And some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread; Some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled, And every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled. There, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come, And now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum. Their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech. We never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach. We talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof, Nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof. But England's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of France; Our little boy is on the sea with Death to take his chance. Next of Kin I notice when the news comes in Of one who's claimed eternal glory, This simple phrase, "the next of kin," Concludes the soldier's final story. This tells the world what voice will choke, What heart that bit of shrapnel broke, What father or what mother brave Will think of Flanders as a grave. "The next of kin," the cable cold Wastes not a precious word in telling, Yet cannot you and I behold The sorrow in some humble dwelling, And cannot you and I perceive The brave yet lonely mother grieve And picture, when that news comes in, The anguish of "the next of kin?"