"The enemy is good at killing kids, and old folks, too; Torpedoing hospital ships and blowin' up our plants; But cogitatin' on their line of wicked things won't do; We'll never hate 'em off the map--just give the guns a chance!" So we don't go in for loathin', and with anger we don't burn; We're drillin', and we're diggin', and we're workin' all the while; To put 'er in the target is the trick we hafter learn-- And ev'ry man's a better shot when he can shoot--and smile! The folks at home will spend their time a-broodin' over all The nasty devils do and on the details they can dwell; It's up to us to learn this game, and then--when comes the call-- Pump lead into the enemy--and send him _back_ to hell. HER JOHNNY Since Johnny has joined the Marine corps, Of course he will do what he's told, And Johnny will be at home on the sea The day he is eighteen years old. Just what they expect of my baby Ain't clear to his maw; my, oh, my! But Johnny's a-wearin' the blue--and ain't carin'-- He's gone! Is it wrong if I cry? It ain't been so long, I remember, That Johnny, my baby, was sick Whenever he'd get on a boat, and he'd fret Till we'd land--which was usually quick. But now, with his gun and his kit-bag, He's answered the call, bless his heart! And he'll square out his jaw and think of his maw And go in to win from the start! My Johnny's not fightin' for pleasure (I know he'll be sea-sick, pore kid!) But he said, "If I stayed, they'd call me afraid; I gotta sign up"--and he did. So now I sit here, sorter dreamin' Of the days he was mine. They are done-- I'm proud; but I wish--I could fix up a dish Of doughnuts for Johnny, my son! THE FIRST FLEET We slid into the harbor here, A line of battle-cruisers gray, With hungry guns as silent as The bands aboard that did not play. The fog was soft, the fog was damp, The hush was thick and wide as space, But ev'ry man was standing at Attention in his given place. We'd made the port, with time to spare-- And Uncle Sam's first Fleet was there! Then came those other navy men-- Our allies in this troubled cause-- Weary of holding back the Hun, Clipping, too slow, his cruel claws. Our Admiral, a few-words man, Greeted the visitors.... "We're here," He said, and that was all. They smiled-- And said they hoped the weather'd clear. But still those men with tired eyes Felt mighty grateful, I surmise! Around our Fleet--not very large-- We took them, thoughtful faces set; And then back to the fog-soaked town They went--uncomfortably wet; But in those eyes a happier light, That told him what they'd like to say-- That they were glad he had come back, As he had hoped to do some day. Another fleet, with fresher men, Gave them a chance to breathe again!