But to you it is just a glorious lark; Scorn of danger is still your creed. As you open her out and advance your spark And humour the throttle to get more speed, Life has only one end for you, To carry your priceless message through! BURGOMASTER MAX [Sidenote: _H.B._] Our children will sing with delight for all time Of the Briton, the French, and the Russian, But most of the man who with humour sublime Pulled the goose-stepping leg of the Prussian. NEWS FROM THE FRONT [Sidenote: _C.E.B. in the "Evening News"_] This so-remarkable letter on-a-battlefield-up-picked the real feeling of the British private soldier demonstrates. Its publication by the Berlin Official News Bureau is authorised. The words parenthesised are of some obscurity, but apparently are exclamations of a disgustful kind. Our sojers they was weepin' The night we went away For some one whispered we was off The Germans for to slay. To shoot them cultured Bosches Would make a Briton shrink And so our 'earts was sad to go (I _don't_ think). An' when we met them blighters Of course we turned and ran, An' Tubby French 'e shouted out "All save theirselves as can"; An' when the big Jack Johnsons banged We didn't cheer and larf An' pump the Bosches full o' lead (No, not 'arf). An' w'en our foes retreated We knowed we couldn't win For they was out, that artful like, To lure us to Berlin. But touch that 'ome of culture? We'd rather far be shot; We simply worship Kaiser Bill (P'raps, p'raps not). FALL IN! [Sidenote: _H.B._] What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack When the girls line up the street, Shouting their love to the lads come back From the foe they rushed to beat? Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky And grin till your cheeks are red? But what will you lack when your mates go by With a girl who cuts you dead? Where will you look, sonny, where will you look When your children yet to be Clamour to learn of the part you took In the War that kept men free? Will you say it was naught to you if France Stood up to her foe or bunked? But where will you look when they give the glance That tells you they know you funked? How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare In the far-off winter night, When you sit by the fire in an old man's chair And your neighbours talk of the fight? Will you slink away, as it were from a blow, Your old head shamed and bent? Or say--I was not with the first to go, But I went, thank God, I went! Why do they call, sonny, why do they call For men who are brave and strong? Is it naught to you if your country fall, And Right is smashed by Wrong? Is it football still and the picture show, The pub and the betting odds, When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow And England's call is God's?