We hear you’re going back with us     To the tune of ten thousand wives, And we wish you ten thousand blessings,     And ten thousand happy lives. So here’s a health to you, Mademoiselle,     Who helped us see it through, And the load that your laughter lightened     Is the debt that we owe to you. THE FIRST DIVISION. American Expeditionary Forces, 1917-1919. When the clarion call of Country     Bade strong men rise and go, Came they the first of the willing first,     In the pride that leal men know. When the Eagle soared and its broad wings spread     ’Bove the shores of an angered land, Sailed they the first of the Viking first     Where the treacherous waters spanned. When the Eagle’s Brood awoke to the shriek     Of the great shells day and night, First of the flock bled they beneath     The star-flare’s blinding light. When the lunging, torn front lines locked     And the strife raged man and man, Swept they the first of the fighting first—     And the van of the battle van. .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . From the training days of Gondrecourt—     Demange—cold, wet and gray— To the trenches north of Lunéville—     To Bouconville—Xivray— To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts     Of war-torn Picardy, And the ghastly rubble hilltop     Where Cantigny used to be: To the splendid days of Soissons—     The crisis of the strife: To where giant pincers severed     St. Mihiel as a knife: To the glorious, stubborn struggle     Up the rugged Argonne slopes, Till the gates of Sedan crumbled     With the Vandals’ crumbling hopes. .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . Sweeping in conquering columns     To the banks of the vaunted Rhine— Ever the first of the fighting first,     And the Lords of the Battle Line. LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS. Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,     What do you mean to me? “We to the left mean hike and drill, Trenches and mud and heat and chill— And I to the right for the blood ye spill     Where the Marne runs to the sea.” Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,     What is the tale ye tell? “We to the left, of the long months spent Where the somber seasons slowly blent— And I to the right, of the ragged rent     That took so long to get well.” Little gold chevrons on my cuffs,     What do you say to me? “That ye would not trade us, master mine, For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, That you are ours and we are thine     Through all the years to be.” A TRIP-WIRE. If you’re sneaking around on a night patrol, Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole, And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul—                 It’s a trip-wire. If you think there isn’t a thing around Except the desolate, shell-torn ground, And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound—                 It’s a trip-wire. If you know a murmur would give the alarm, And you’ve smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm, And then you go falling all over the farm—                 It’s a trip-wire.