O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going, But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse; And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them, For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose; They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands, They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales; They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser, "_Faugh-a-ballagh!_" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales. O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais, But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom; For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches, And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb. But they're makin' progress backward, "_nach Berlin_" they are going, With their "_Landsturms_" and their "_Land-wehrs_," keepin' sthep in dim grey line; And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin', When they find themselves "_su Hause_" jist beyant "_Die Wacht am Rhein_." _For John E. Redmond, M.P._ MOTHERS Through the vigils deep of the sable night A mother sits in grief alone, For her sons have gone to the battle front And left on the hearth a crushing stone. Beyond the stars that burn at night She sees God's arm in pity reach; It counsels patience, love and faith, Heroic hearts and souls to teach. The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out. And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer; And the mother turns from this throne of grief To pierce the years with a joyous tear; For duty born of a mother's heart Fills all the rounds of our common day-- Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night, And fills with light each hidden way. _For Miss Ina Coolbrith._ IN THE TRENCHES All day the guns belched fire and death And filled the hours with gloom; The fateful music smote the sky In tremulous bars of doom; But as the evening stars came forth A truce to death and strife, There rose from hearts of patriot love A tender song of life. A song of home and fireside Swelled on the evening air, And men forgot their battle line, Its carnage and dark care; The soldier dropp'd his rifle And joined the choral song, As high above the tide of war It swept and pulsed along. That night while sleeping where the stars Look down upon the Meuse, Where Teuton valor coped with Frank, Where rained most deadly dews, A soldier youth, in khaki clad, Rock'd where the maples grow, Smiled in his dream and saw again The blue St. Lawrence flow. _For Miss Julia O'Sullivan._ THE CHRIST-CHILD