The rocket's glare shall greet His eyes, the tumult breaks His rest, And He, the King, shall sorrowed cling unto His mother's breast; The battle's smoke His star shall dim, the song the angels sing Shall pass unheard; thus men at war shall greet their Lord and King. What of the future and mankind while Christian, Christian slays? How shall we dream of better things amid these saddened days? There sounds, derisive, from the East, the laughing Pagan lands, "Go back, false prophets of the Christ, with blood upon your hands." Behind their Eastern barriers as tigers wait their prey, The little bead-eyed yellow men sit dreaming of their Day, When crippled Europe, on a crutch, shall cringe before their power, And, chained with broken sword, renounce two thousand years of dower. GRIT AND TORY The petty feuds of life depart when roll the Nation's drums, And common dangers shared remolds, and strength from union comes. We lived divided in our town, He up the street where I lived down, And when we met we used to frown, For we were Grit and Tory. But that was in the yesterdays; Then something came to change our ways; I'll tell for you the story. I used to think I hated him, I felt he hated me, Before the Call of Duty came and took us o'er the sea, For I was Grit unto the core, And he was Tory double-bore; In three campaigns we fought it o'er, In battles sometimes gory. For prejudice is rooted deep, And folk sometimes lose precious sleep, Because they're Grit and Tory. It used to be our loudest boast and proudest to relate, That we were always party men and always voted straight; And he who holds his cause as right, Is seldom too darn proud to fight, And so we fought with all our might Just like two common bruisers; But that was in the olden days, E'er something came to change our ways, And make us saner hoosiers. Full sudden came the King's appeal, a call for volunteers, That stirred the fighting blood of us who rowed for many years; Then Bill enlisted and I too, Since there was fighting still to do, Went o'er the ocean wide and blue, Convoyed by fighting cruisers; And as we sailed for sunny France I wondered which would get his chance And which would be the loser. When whole battalions march away and enter in the fray, The little strifes of little towns seem very far away, And all the hasty words that's said Seem petty where great armies tread, And fields are covered thick with dead, And stricken comrades dying; And oft I wondered what I'd say If Bill and I should meet some day, Among the wounded lying.