Between the blazing horizons     That hammer the long night through, Lapping their tongues of hatred—     Fearless she comes to you. And over the roar of battle     Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, Shine forth the loving eyes we hold     Above all earthly things. _A World run mad with slaughter—     A charnel-house of blood— But the face of the Battle Mother     Above the crimson flood._ SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917. _The drafted men fought hard and well,     The whole big army did, But we prefer the spirit     Of the Bayard and the Cid._ The drafted men fought hard and well,     But when Jack sailed for France, They didn’t have to drag us in     By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants. The drafted men fought hard and well,     But when it first began, From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf,     We rose, a single man. The drafted men fought hard and well,     But when the days were black, Glad we sprang to the call to front     The snarling, charging pack. The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate,     In a victor’s drunken might: The unleashed, howling gray hordes     Sweeping plain and height. The drafted men fought hard and well,     But when the great floes pressed, Came we to break the ice and clear     A channel for the rest. The drafted men fought hard and well,     But now the thing is o’er, We ’re glad we came the way we came     When the Nation rose to war. The drafted men fought hard and well,     But now the thing is done, We’re glad we came the time we came     In the heyday of the Hun. Shades of Patrick Henry—     Of Washington and Hale, God grant we’ve kept the trust—God grant     The Old Guard shall not fail. _The drafted men fought hard and well,     The whole vast army did, But we prefer the spirit     Of the Bayard and the Cid._ O. D. _O. D., it_ ought _to mean Oh Damn,_     _When in the pay of Uncle Sam:_ _But when you hear the soldier blab_     _"O. D.," it just means Olive Drab._ The leggings, breeches and the boots     Of Uncle Samuel’s war galoots— The overcoats and jackets too,     Confess the selfsame mournful hue. It may be excellent camouflage     To try to fool a young barrage; It may not show the bally dirt     So much upon your knees and shirt. It may be serviceable and such     When you are beating-up the “Dutch;” But from a calm esthetic point,     The color’s sadly out-of-joint. A little mud on red or blue     May seem quite prominent to you; But put the same upon O. D.,     And the whole blame thing looks mud to me. But then, it matches trenches well,     And things that make you say, Oh Hell For instance, hikes, inspections, drills,     And busted arms with C. C. pills. It makes you heave a sigh or two     For the good old days of brass and blue; But if it’s fit to beat the “Dutch”     I guess it doesn’t matter much. ARTILLERY REGISTERING.