For there’s a great time coming, Buddy, A time worth waiting for, When Kultur’s done And all is won, And the boys come home from war. Oh, she’ll be waiting, Buddy, And the lovelight in her eye Will shine with joy As Her Big Boy Goes proudly marching by. It’s a hard road for you, Buddy, But it’s more than worth the game To buck all fears So Mother’s tears Will be for joy, not shame. HOWARD J. GREEN, Corp., Inf. THE WOOD CALLED ROUGE-BOUQUET[1] (Dedicated to the memory of 19 members of Co. E., 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at Rouge-Bouquet, Forest of Parroy, France, March 7; read by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing the music of Taps from a distant grove.) I In the woods they call Rouge-Bouquet There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade or pick, Yet covered by earth ten metres thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh or live again Or taste of the summer time; For death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey— And left them there— Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they sought to free, And fled away. Now over the grave, abrupt and clear, Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear: Go to sleep— Go to sleep— (_Taps sounding in distance._) II There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this spot of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand, Smiling with their holy eyes On this new come band. St. Michael’s sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair, As he sees them stand saluting there His stalwart sons; And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael’s blood runs