To-day--with puzzled, patient face, With ears a-droop, and weary feet, He marches to the sound of drums, And draws the gun along the street. To-day--he draws the guns of war! L. G. MOBERLY THE MAN WHO KEEPS HIS HEAD There's a man who fights for England, and he'll keep her still atop, He will guard her from dishonour in the market and the shop, He will save her homes from terror on the fields of Daily Bread, He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man who keeps his head. Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels of commerce turn, Let the ships that war with England see her factory furnace burn; For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart most quails with dread When behind the man in khaki is the man who keeps his head. Brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's coward mood Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders stored with food, Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating in his bed, And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man who keeps his head. Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor man's constant strife Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war with life, And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and brittle thread, And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor man keeps his head. When the ships come back from slaughter, and the troops march home from war; When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road that lies before, Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall be fed, By the man who stuck to business, by the man who kept his head. HAROLD BEGBIE FRANCE Because for once the sword broke in her hand, The words she spoke seemed perished for a space; All wrong was brazen, and in every land The tyrants walked abroad with naked face. The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star Of evil fate denying all release. The rulers smote the feeble crying "War!" The usurers robbed the naked crying "Peace!" And her own feet were caught in nets of gold, And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm, And little men climbed her high seats and sold Her honour to the vulture and the worm. And she seemed broken and they thought her dead, The Over-Men, so brave against the weak. Has your last word of sophistry been said, O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak. Clear the slow mists from her half-darkened eyes, As slow mists parted over Valmy fell, And once again her hands in high surprise Take hold upon the battlements of Hell. CECIL CHESTERTON WE WILLED IT NOT