Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks The weary Golfers on their inward treks; And close beside, beneath the porch's shade, The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade And other cheering drinks, within the law; But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw? THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say, If serving one's country deserves any praise: Two years at the front, then an arm shot away! And this is my "cross" in reward for those days. But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains: Until France is free we must fight: every one! Of course I'll go back to the trenches again: My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound; Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground. I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top, The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm, With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop: For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm! France needs every son, be they crippled or strong, To rid our fair land of the murderous horde: So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along! And fight till the Glory of France is restored! Our women are outraged, our children enslaved; Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath! We can _never_ turn back, so be it engraved On our spears and escutcheons,--_Vengeance or Death_! WAR Down by the village runs the stream Once placid, now a raging flood: Behold it, by the day's last gleam Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood. The Chapel bell has tolled its last; The trees are bare, tho this be Spring: Death's shroud is on the village cast, And Ruin reigns o'er everything. A grist of carnage clogs the Mill, And shells have razed the quondam homes: Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill, Whose cellars are but catacombs. Beyond the village, Refugees Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief, Or, _gassed_, implore on bended knees For death, despairing of relief. With bayonets and faces set The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led, Present a gruesome parapet,-- Thus, _still defending_, tho they're dead. SONG OF THE SAMSONS We are Samsons, Biff! Boom! Bang! Here to pot the Potsdam Gang. If Bad Bill is found in Metz, We'll not vouch for what he gets! If in Essen he is caught, Good Night! Kultur, Him und Gott! Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint When he finds his Empire _ain't_!