The torturous hike up the hill road,     Plowing through snow and mud; The poor weary arches breaking—     The socks that are wet with our blood: The terrible, binding, burning strap     That’s cutting our shoulder through— And our parched lips stammer, “My Country,     For you and only for you.” The slight and the slur and the nagging     We must take from a rowdy or cad; And we simply salute and say “Yes sir,”     And pretend that we never feel mad: Though our heart is a forest of hatred—     And justice seems hidden from view— And we mutter, “For you, oh my Country—     For you, yea, and only for you.” When all evening long the guns’ reddened glares     Turn night into hellish day, Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut     The drab of the dawn’s growing gray: When over the top we are starting again—     Full knowing the thing that we do— We murmur, “For you, oh my Country—     For you, aye and only for you.” COOTIES. Some people call ’em Totos—     Some people call ’em Lice; Some people call ’em several things     That really aren’t nice; But the Soldier calls ’em “Cooties,”     So “Cooties” must suffice. We’ve met the dear Mosquito—     We’ve met the festive Fly— It seems to me we’ve seen the Flea     That jumpeth far and high; Yea, we have known various bugs—     Though not the reason why. But when you’re in the trenches     And cannot take a bath, As one canteen of water     Is all one day one hath, You raise the comely Cooties—     Who raise, in turn, your wrath. You can’t escape the Cooties     By day nor yet by night. No G. I. Can alarms them,     Nor other sound of fight. Not even Gas affects them—     Which doesn’t seem just right. You may not eat, you may not sleep,     You may not bat an eye: You may not duck a six-inch shell     That’s singing gaily by, But that a Cootie, like the Poor,     _Is with you—very nigh._ They bite you singly and in squads,     They have a whole parade; They form a skirmish line and sweep     Across each hill and glade; But seek their dugouts when you think     Your grip is firmly laid. It does no good to curse ’em—     They cannot hear or talk. It does no good to chase ’em—     To still-hunt or to stalk. The only thing is hand-grenades,     At which, ’tis said, they balk. Oh Cooties, little Cooties,     You have no sense of shame; You are not fair, you are not square,     You do not play the game— But east and west and south and north     Is spread afar your fame. OLD FUSEE. (Rifle number 366915., Springfield model 1903.) I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— Where the land is scarred and peeled, And the broken battlefield Bears its red and deadly yield—         Wearily. I really hate to leave you,         Old Fusee— To the wind and dew and rain Of a shorn and shotted plain, Till stranger hands again         Discover thee.