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BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 p\ 
 
BY BERTON BRALEY 
 
 BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 IN CAMP AND TRENCH 
 
 A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 
 
 THINGS AS THEY ARE 
 
 SONGS OF THE WORKADAY WORLD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Buddy Ballads 
 
 Songs of the A. E. F. 
 
 by 
 Berton Braley 
 
 Author of "A Banjo at Armageddon," "Things 
 as They Are," etc., etc. 
 
 rsew York 
 Kjeorge ti. Doran (company 
 
>^ 
 
 <p"'^^ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 Oul 15 1919 
 
 FMNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMEBICA 
 
 ©CI.A5:i62;]4 
 
TO 
 
 LESLIE W. QUIRK 
 M. T. D., A. E. F. 
 An American Soldier 
 
 This book of verse 
 
 about American Soldiers 
 
 is Dedicated 
 
MUCH of the verse in this volume has 
 appeared in the Popular Magazine, 
 Collier's Weekly, Life, The Woman's World, 
 The New York World, Everybody's Maga- 
 zine, Judge, and The Saturday Evening Post, 
 and acknowledgments are due to the editors 
 and publishers of these journals for permis- 
 sion to use the verse in book form. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 True Music 13 
 
 Some Community 15 
 
 Altered 16 
 
 S. O. S 18 
 
 The Bombproof er 21 
 
 The Battle of Paris 23 
 
 The Late Arrival 25 
 
 In Hospital 27 
 
 The M.'p 29 
 
 A.W.O.L 31 
 
 For Service 33 
 
 Limberfingers 35 
 
 Convoy 37 
 
 Night at the Front 39 
 
 His Detail 41 
 
 "The Amateurs" 43 
 
 Mud 46 
 
 Aerial Adventurers 48 
 
 The Student Aviator 49 
 
 Futures 51 
 
 Archie 54 
 
 Tribute 56 
 
 The Little Guy 58 
 
 The Army Doctor 60 
 
 Frenchy 62 
 
 The Doughboy 64 
 
 The Runner 67 
 
 Anzacs 69 
 
 The Shavetail 72 
 
 Tommy 74 
 
 Engineers 76 
 
 The Smokes #78 
 
 The Regular •79 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 The Marines 8i 
 
 The Yid Battalion 83 
 
 "Buddy" 85 
 
 "Son Fairy Ann" 87 
 
 Knowledge 89 
 
 Fed Up 91 
 
 The Hidden Things 93 
 
 Ambition 95 
 
 The Lost Buddy 96 
 
 The Fighting Edge 98 
 
 "I'll Tell the World" 100 
 
 Wonderment 102 
 
 The Lesson 104 
 
 The Question 107 
 
 The Two Crosses 109 
 
 The Big Advance iii 
 
 Speculation 113 
 
 Pride 115 
 
 The Return 116 
 
 l«I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TRUE MUSIC 
 
 THESE boys have won to glory 
 In battle everywhere, 
 Tremendous is their story 
 And yet the bard's despair; 
 For though their deeds astounding 
 Thrill all your heart and brain, 
 They'd jeer the minstrel sounding 
 A fine heroic strain. 
 
 They speak of war's endeavor 
 When men are mowed like wheat. 
 Of things that live forever. 
 In slang of field and street; 
 Seek you for tales of duties 
 
 Where trenches run with blood. 
 They grin, and talk of "cooties" 
 Of "army chow" and mud. 
 
 What though their fame hereafter 
 
 Shall gleam in living fire? 
 .The singer courts their laughter 
 
 Unless he strikes his lyr« 
 In accents syncopated 
 
 And makes the cat-gut thrum 
 To simple music, freighted 
 
 With tunes that they can hum. 
 [13] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TRUE MUSIC (continued) 
 
 So, if their songs lack splendor 
 
 Of deeds that echo far 
 It is because they render 
 
 Our soldiers as they are, 
 But if you care to hear it 
 The faith they will not own- 
 The true heroic spirit 
 Is in the undertone! 
 
 [I4l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 SOME COMMUNITY 
 
 THERE'S a bunch of sores on my poor 
 left arm 
 Which has swelled like a country hilly, 
 For I'm filled chock full with a husky swarm 
 
 Of anti-disease bacilli. 
 I'm doped with germs of the well-known grippe 
 
 And my system is vaccinated 
 With bugs of smallpox, typhoid and pip; 
 I'm excessively populated. 
 
 When time is slack on the doctors' hands 
 
 With a vaccine point they nick me. 
 Or a hypo filled with a dozen brands 
 
 Of bugs is used to prick me. 
 If the census bureau should try to count 
 
 The germs in my tissues lurking 
 Before they'd total the whole amount 
 
 They'd perish from overworking. 
 
 I thought when I joined with the U. S. A. 
 
 And gave up my life civilian, 
 I'd be just one in the mighty fray 
 
 Instead of which I'm a trillion. 
 My muscles ache and my arm is sore 
 
 So that nary disease can harm me. 
 And I'm sailing nov/ for a foreign shore 
 
 Each drop of my blood an army! 
 [15] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ALTERED 
 
 YOU wouldn't know your Percy now, 
 There is tan upon his snow-white 
 brow. 
 When he came he was a sissy 
 And his ways were very prissy 
 But he's undergone a change somehow; 
 He was really quite a model 
 Of a perfect molly-coddle 
 But you wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 
 You wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 
 At the first he scorned the army chow. 
 He was used to dainty dishes 
 Cooked according to his wishes 
 
 But we took him on a hike — and wow ! 
 You should see him fill his mess-kit 
 With the food to swell his weskit, 
 
 No, you wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 
 You wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 
 He was one to whom the swells cow-tow 
 Now he pals with Mike the baker, 
 And with Tim the boiler-maker 
 
 And with Jack who sailed a garbage scow; 
 What the army made him see was 
 They were better men than he was 
 
 And you wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 [i6] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ALTERED (continued) 
 
 You wouldn't know your Percy now. 
 
 His chest was thirty-two, I vow. 
 Now it bulges like a barrel 
 And he cleaned up Pat O'Farrel 
 
 In a recent little friendly row ; 
 
 For at last he's joined the crowd of 
 Husky chaps worth being proud of 
 
 And you wouldn't know your Percy now ! 
 
 [i7l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 S.O.S. 
 
 YES, when we joined the army we were put in Olive 
 Drab 
 But now our service uniforms depend on what we 
 do, 
 Sometimes a cobbler's apron is the garment that we 
 grab, 
 The white coat of a baker or a fireman's dingy blue ; 
 Our looks won't make you proud of us for there's a 
 motley crowd of us 
 Who keep things moving forward to the first-line 
 fighting guys. 
 The chow and clothes by tons for them, the powder 
 and the guns for them, 
 For we're the rummy outfit known as "Service of 
 Supplies." 
 
 Up at the Front they say, "Oh, yes. 
 
 It's pretty soft for the S.O.S." 
 
 And I s'pose they're right, for all we fight 
 
 Is weather, and time, and such; 
 Laying the thousands of tracks or more 
 Where there was nothing but swamp before. 
 
 And being told "That ain't much." 
 For all we hear in our strain and stress 
 
 Is, "Pretty soft for the S.O.S." 
 [i8] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 S.O.S. (continued) 
 
 Our C.O.s only stick to work for eighteen hours a day 
 And all they ever ask of us is just about the same, 
 We do a job like Panama to while the time away 
 
 Erect ten miles of building as an idle sort of game ; 
 With docks and much machinery we decorate the 
 scenery, 
 Assemble locomotives at the rate of five an hour. 
 Excuses cannot go with us and sheer results must 
 show with us. 
 For we supply the doughboys with their hardest 
 hitting power. 
 
 But still they say at the Front, "Oh, yes. 
 It's pretty soft for the S.O.S." 
 
 And p'raps it's true, for all we do 
 
 Is make a new map of France, 
 Juggle with freight by the cubic mile 
 And fit two million of men in style. 
 
 To move when the word's "Advance !" 
 Cinch? Why sure, it's a pipe, I guess. 
 Soft, oh soft, for the S.O.S. 
 
 We drive the spiles for jetties and we build a dozen 
 quays. 
 We bake the bread of armies and we mend their 
 shirts and shoes, 
 We yank out all the cargoes of the ships from overseas 
 And we send 'em up on trucks and trains for fight- 
 ing men to use. 
 We have our bunks and creep in *em when we have 
 time to sleep in 'em, 
 The Gothas come and bomb us now and then before 
 we rise, 
 
 [19] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 S.O.S. (continued) 
 
 We do our job and sweat for it and all we ever get 
 for it 
 Is knocks for "seeking safety in the Service of Sup- 
 plies." 
 
 For everywhere that we go I guess 
 
 We hear, "It's soft for the S.O.S." 
 
 So we grin and bear, but you bet we care 
 When they sneer at the service crew. 
 
 For we had our job and we didn't shirk 
 
 But did our best with our daily work 
 And that's all a man gang can do, 
 
 But the only credit we get is, "Yes, 
 
 It's pretty soft for the S.O.S.'* 
 
 [w] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BOMBPROOFER 
 
 SOFT? Say, listen, you with the golden stripe 
 Showin* a piece of flyin' shrapnel hit you, 
 Me, I'm talkin', got a few words to pipe 
 
 Though if I done the way I feel, I'd hit you ; 
 Soft, I've had it — 'twasn't no fault of mine 
 
 It was for soldier's work I joined this army. 
 Not to be anchored, miles from the battle line, 
 Where there is nothin' comes along to harm me. 
 
 Orders is orders, yours for a trench. 
 
 Mine to stick here 'cause I parleyed the French, 
 
 I didn't want it, but that was my stunt. 
 
 Me, who had dreamed about life at the front ! 
 
 Soft? Say, Buddy, maybe you think it's fun 
 
 When I return, with fellers that's been in battle, 
 Meet my folks an' tell 'em that all I done 
 
 Was stayin' here, interpretin' Frenchies* prattle; 
 Ask for transfer? I've tried every way on earth. 
 
 Told my Captain, "I wanted to fight in France, sir. 
 Not to linger, fillin' a bomb proof berth !" 
 
 "This is the place you're needed," was my answer. 
 
 Orders is orders ; yours to the spot 
 Where all the shells an' the gas make it hot. 
 Mine to be doin' a job that is tame 
 Wishin' to hell I was playin* the game! 
 
 [21] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BOMBPROOFER (continued) 
 
 Soft is right ; but not what I came here for. 
 
 Me that was sick of things I was doin* daily. 
 Me, expectin' a different life in war, 
 
 Me, who, seekin* for thrills, enlisted gaily. 
 Soft, you said it. I sleep in a comfy bed 
 
 Dreamin* of war, wishin' that I was in it, 
 Soft for me, who'd rather be up there, dead. 
 
 Than in this job, hatin* it every minute. 
 
 Orders is orders — you got your chance 
 Glory an' hardship of service in France, 
 I've et my heart out with envyin' 5'^ou, 
 See the point, Buddy, all right then, I'm 
 through ! 
 
 [32] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PARIS 
 
 I COMES in right straight from the trenches 
 An', pipin' what's round me to see, 
 I meets an' American soldier 
 
 Who's dressed up for afternoon tea ; 
 I says to him, "Buddy, I'm askin* 
 
 What duty they've picked you out for? 
 You're dolled up, by heck, but your face looks a 
 wreck. 
 Say, what have you done in the war?" 
 
 "I fought in the Battle of Paris 
 
 For eighteen long months," he replies, 
 "Repellin' the spells of the mademoiselles 
 
 That's buzzin' around here like flies ; 
 My right arm's worn out from salutin' 
 
 These shavetails an* captings, by gosh ; 
 I fought in the Battle of Paris, 
 
 It's harder than fightin* the Boche !" 
 
 He gives a sad smile an' he mutters, 
 
 "You've had a tough time up your way. 
 But you didn't face regulations 
 
 That's changed twenty times every day; 
 You didn't get ten francs subsistence 
 
 Where chow alone costs twenty odd, 
 An' M.P.s just flock growlin' 'pass,' every block. 
 
 Along o' your whole promenade. 
 [23] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PARIS (continued) 
 "I fought in the Battle of Paris 
 
 For glory I hadn't a chance, 
 I drove a side-car for a Louie whose bar 
 
 Was won by the way he could dance; 
 I've three golden stripes for my service 
 
 I've never packed helmet or gun, 
 But — fight in the Battle of Paris 
 
 An' see how you like it, old son." 
 
 Well me, I just looks at that feller 
 
 An' thinks what the poor boob's been through, 
 An' says to him, "Bud, I've seen danger an' blood. 
 
 But I ain't no braver than you. 
 You've fought in the Battle of Paris 
 
 An' sure show the wear an' the tear. 
 An' just so you'll know how you stand with ms, 
 Bo, 
 
 I'll slip you my old Croix de Guerre !" 
 
 [24l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LATE ARRIVAL 
 (Who found it "fini" when he came). 
 
 I FEEL just like a kid who's schemed an' planned 
 For joinin' with the circus in some town. 
 Lured by the gilded wagons an' the band, 
 
 An' who arrives, an' finds the canvas down. 
 The seats piled up, the cages locked an' tight. 
 
 The troupe still there, but with no place to go. 
 An', in the dim dawn's cold an' pallid light, 
 The sheriff in possession of the show! 
 
 The circusmen may come around an' say, 
 
 "Young feller, this here game is on the punk. 
 You get hard work, bum grub, no chanct to play, 
 
 An' half the time the ground is where you bunk ; 
 You gotta fight with roughnecks everywhere, 
 
 You have no home an' mighty little coin. 
 Take it from us, kid, you're in luck for fair 
 
 To have the show blow up before you join." 
 
 They may be right, but that young kid will feel, 
 
 Sorry the outfit went upon the shelf, 
 An' wish, in spite of what the wise ones spiel 
 
 He'd had a chanct to try the thing himself. 
 No matter how or where he may exist, 
 
 An' whether he is poor or has the cash, 
 He'll always think of things that he has missed 
 
 By comin' when the show has went to smash. 
 [25] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LATE ARRIVAL (continued) 
 
 An' that's the way with me about this war. 
 
 You guys that's tried it claim the graft was bum, 
 But none the less it's what I came here for, 
 
 An' now I've missed it, well, I'm sort of glum ; 
 You say I'm lucky, landin' when I did. 
 
 Perhaps you're right, I guess you ought to know. 
 But all my life I'll be just like that kid 
 
 Who came too late an* found — a busted show! 
 
 [36] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 IN HOSPITAL 
 
 NURSE, here is another brave hero who wants to 
 go back to the front, 
 He's wounded in seventeen places from pullin* some 
 
 kind of a stunt 
 Out there where the gas is the thickest an' bullets an* 
 
 shells fill the air. 
 An* now, lyin' soft in a hospital bed, he's longin' to 
 
 hurry back there! 
 You say there ain't any such soldier? I guess it must 
 
 be you ain't seen 
 How thousands of wounded is talkin* — accordin' to 
 
 this magazine — 
 Of runnin' right back to the trenches the minute they 
 
 find they are well. 
 An* leavin' these hospital quarters to step in the mid- 
 dle of hell ! 
 
 But you know an* I know they're lyin', you bet. 
 They toss out that bunk for a fresh cigarette. 
 We're willin* to go when they order us back 
 But no one is achin' to risk a new crack. 
 This "just-let-me-at-'em-again" stuff they pull 
 Is nothin* but bull, Nurse, just nothin' but bull! 
 
 Go back to the rats an* the cooties, the cold an* the 
 
 rain an* the mud, 
 The whiz-bangs, the H.E.s an* shrapnel, the gas an' 
 
 the stink an* the blood? 
 
 [27] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 IN HOSPITAL (continued) 
 
 We do it, of course, it's our duty, an* part of the job 
 
 we have got. 
 But that ain't no sign we're enthusin' or cheerin' a 
 
 hell of a lot. 
 For we've had our taste of the business, an' we know 
 
 the glory of war. 
 An* take it from us, little sister, it's nothin' we're 
 
 hankerin* for; 
 A hospital's comfy an* pleasant, the front is unhealthy 
 
 an' rough. 
 An* when a guy says that he wants to go back, he's 
 
 throwin' some kind of a bluff. 
 The fact is we go when we're ordered, it's something 
 
 we came here to do, 
 But Gosh, Nurse, you know how we hate it, an* Gosh, 
 
 we'll be glad when we're through! 
 
 They're stallin*, just stallin', the guys who assert. 
 They ache to go back to the smells an* the dirt. 
 They're talkin* for glory, not knowin', poor tykes, 
 Tain't glory for no one to do what he likes ; 
 But when you go back, an' go back with a grin 
 In spite of the fact that you dread it like sin. 
 That's bein' a soldier, a guy who don't pull 
 No sign of the bull. Nurse, no sign of the bull ! 
 
 [«81 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE M. P. 
 
 NOBODY loves the M. P. 
 Gosh, but we're misunderstood. 
 
 Though it's a fact 
 
 We always act 
 Just for the soldier's own good. 
 Shield him an' keep him from harm 
 
 Watch over him like a father; 
 But, does he treat us the same as a son, 
 Show us he's grateful for all that we done, 
 
 Thank us, with smiles, for our bother? 
 Not on your life, he's as sore as can be. 
 
 Nobody loves the M. P. 
 
 When a man's quartered in town 
 Where his temptations are big. 
 
 We keep him straight 
 
 Early an' late. 
 Sheltered from sin— in the brig! 
 He'd be forgettin' his pass 
 
 If we weren't there to remind him; 
 But, does he show that he's pleased with our care? 
 No, all he does is to grumble an' swear. 
 
 Thankless an' grouchy we find him, 
 Cussin' ourselves an' our whole pedigree, 
 
 Nobody loves the M. P. 
 [29] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE M. P. (continued) 
 
 Soldier in line is the same. 
 Though we do things for the best, 
 
 Helpin' him fight 
 
 By directin' him right. 
 He merely calls us a pest ; 
 When we are kindly, but firm, 
 
 Givin' him lessons in duty, 
 How does he take it? He'll grunt an* he'll grouse 
 Sayin', between an M. P. an' a louse, 
 
 He'd rather live with the cootie ! 
 Sure it ain't right, but you've got to agree 
 
 Nobody loves the M. P. 
 
 When I am done with my bit 
 Here on the earth, an' I fly 
 
 Up where St. Pete has the doorkeeper's seat 
 
 He'll look me straight in the eye. 
 Pipe my brassard an' my hat. 
 
 Then he'll remark, in a minute, 
 "Buddy, I'm sorry, but there's two or three 
 Doughboys up here, an* this place wouldn't be 
 
 Heaven for them, with you in it; 
 That'll be hell for you, sure, but you see. 
 
 Nobody loves an M. P.!" 
 
 [30J 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 A. W. O. L. 
 
 AW. O. L. — yes. Bud, that's me! 
 • Six — months — up — front; some — long — hard — 
 spell 
 Couldn't — get — no — leave, so — you — can — see 
 Why— I— just— went A. W. O. L. 
 
 -ci l-.^'ig as there was fightin' I didn't ask to go, 
 I wasn't gonna be a yellow pup. 
 If other guys could stand it. You bet I wouldn't show 
 
 That any kind of game could do me up. 
 I slept in rain an' drizzle an' I et my meals from tin, 
 An* if I felt like blubberin* I'd set my teeth an' grin ; 
 But when we got to billets an' it looked as if we'd stay, 
 An' leave was plumb denied me, why I simply went 
 away. 
 
 My clothes an* my features was muddy 
 But under the mud was a smile. 
 
 For after my laborin'. Buddy, 
 I thought I'd just play for awhile. 
 
 I beat it on the railway an* when the guard came by 
 
 I muttered "ne comprend" to all he said. 
 An* so I came to Paris, to Paris, Bud, an' I 
 
 Have done my best to paint the city red; 
 I've played around regardless, I've bought the 
 chickens wine 
 
 [31] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 A. W. O. L. (continued) 
 
 I've stood on cafe tables an* sang "The World is 
 
 Mine," 
 At last the M. P/s got me an' they put me in the coop. 
 But when I think of all my fun, why I don't give a 
 
 whoop ! 
 
 I beat it from camp in a hurry 
 An' now I must pay for the crime. 
 
 But though I catch hell, I should worry. 
 For I've had one hell of a time ! 
 
 A. W. O. L., yes. Bud, that's — me, 
 
 Six — months — up — front, some — long — ^hard — spell, 
 Leave— or — no — leave — I've — had — my — spree, 
 
 I'm— glad— I— went A. W. O. L, 
 
 [32] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FOR SERVICE 
 
 SNUB-NOSED and short as to wheelbase, spidery- 
 like as to frame 
 Known as the little "tin Lizzie," doing its work just 
 
 the same, 
 Right on the job when it's needed, eager for any old 
 
 stunt 
 Dodging the shells and the shell-holes, bumping along 
 
 to the front; 
 Ambulance carrying blesses, camion loaded with 
 
 chow. 
 Rattling along like a messkit, but always arriving, 
 
 somehow, 
 Some little soldier, the Flivver, tough little, rough 
 
 little car, 
 Fit for the hardest of service, ready whenever you 
 
 are! 
 
 Hang a set of medals on the Flivver, 
 
 (It'll shake 'em off, but never mind) 
 It was always certain to deliver 
 
 Service of the necessary kind. 
 It set your teeth arattle as it jounced you into 
 battle 
 
 It joggled up your stomach and your liver. 
 It wasn't any beauty but it sure was there for duty 
 
 So hang a bunch of medals on the Flivver. 
 
 [33] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FOR SERVICE (continued) 
 
 Big cars are better to look at, but, when they're mired 
 
 in the muck 
 Hark how they honk for assistance, calling a Tin 
 
 Lizzie truck, 
 Funny and battered and noisy, watch how the Flivver 
 
 makes good. 
 There is a peach of an engine under that little tin 
 
 hood; 
 Nothing but shell-fire can stop it, and I have seen, now 
 
 and then. 
 How, when it's half shot to pieces, it'll start going 
 
 again. 
 Say, if they there weren't quite so many, causing the 
 
 chickens to scoot 
 When I caught sight of a Flivver, I'd bring my hand 
 
 to salute. 
 
 Hang a set of medals on the Fliwer 
 
 D. S. C. and also Croix de Guerre, 
 You can count upon it to deliver 
 
 All the goods its built for, anywhere. 
 Wherever it may take you it'll bounce you, it'll 
 shake you. 
 
 Till your body and your nerves are all aquiver, 
 But you have the fun of knowing that you'll get 
 where you are going, 
 
 So hang a set of medals on the Flivver! 
 
 IS4] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 LIMBERFINGERS 
 
 HE wasn't so good with a rifle, he couldn't throw 
 hand grenades much 
 And when in a fight, though his nerve was all right, 
 he got in the other men's way; 
 But put him before a piano, believe me, the kid had 
 a touch 
 He knew every note that had ever been wrote, oh, 
 Buddy, that soldier could play. 
 He'd make you feel classical music way down to the 
 tip of your spine; 
 He'd make your blood thrill and the heart of you 
 fill with songs and with marches of war 
 Or set you to swinging with rag time that bubbled and 
 tingled like wine — 
 Then sudden, you'd find that with tears you was 
 blind, you didn't know why or what for. 
 
 He'd find an old battered piano, somewhere in a 
 ruined chateau 
 With half the strings broke and the keyboard a 
 joke and both of the pedals napoo 
 But if all the white keys was missing, he'd play on 
 the black ones, and so 
 He'd give us an air we could whistle to there, and 
 say, but it cheered us beaucoup. 
 [35l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 LIMBERFINGERS (continued) 
 
 For some guys is best in the trenches, and some guys 
 is best down at Tours 
 But he did his bit with each key that he hit, his 
 fingers was magical things 
 That wove us a web of enchantment around all we 
 had to endure 
 And gave us the heart to go on with our part, by 
 tunes from a boxful of strings. 
 
 He wasn't so much with a shovel, though willing and 
 anxious enough 
 His hands wasn't made for the ditch diggers' trade, 
 but he could dig down in your soul 
 And bring up your dreams and your visions to make 
 you forget life was tough 
 Forget, for a time, all the muck and the slime, of 
 some damn detestable hole; 
 
 No matter how weary or sleepless or worn with the 
 march he might be 
 He'd bring from the keys any tune that you please 
 if there was a keyboard to try 
 And if I was handing out medals I'd slip him the 
 old D. S. C. 
 The service he give was to help us to live — and 
 help us, if need be, to die! 
 
 [36] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 CONVOY 
 
 BLACK night folding and surrounding us 
 Camions and batteries of guns. 
 No light save the shell-fire pounding us 
 
 Searching for the route the convoy runs. 
 Hey, you! Throw that coffin nail away. 
 
 Where you think you are, in Central Park? 
 Poor stew, want to give our trail away? 
 Bringing up a convoy in the dark. 
 
 Road's clogged, full of troops ahead of us. 
 
 Now we've hit a hole, the motor dies. 
 Wheel's bogged, think what's being said of us 
 
 Where the Front is waiting for supplies ! 
 What, stuck? No, she gives a cough again 
 
 Moves a little, slow as Noah's Ark, 
 Here's luck, give her gas, we're off again. 
 
 Bringing up the convoy in the dark. 
 
 Whee — ee, crash! Listen, where did THAT one go? 
 
 Seems to me they're getting pretty near. 
 Some smash! Now I hear a fat one go 
 
 Whining through the inky atmosphere. 
 Whoa there, held up with our load again 
 
 Fritzie must have landed on his mark. 
 Don't swear, they will clear the road again — 
 
 Bringing up a convoy in the dark. 
 [37I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 CONVOY (continued) 
 
 Crawl, crawl. Guys in back are cussing us, 
 
 Powder truck's a little in advance, 
 Boys all, wouldn't Fritz be mussing us 
 
 If he hit THAT camion by chance! 
 Guns, chow, powder and machinery, 
 
 Not a light to go by, not a mark. 
 That's how, groping through the scenery 
 
 We bring up the convoy after dark. 
 
 [38I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 NIGHT AT THE FRONT 
 
 NIGHT at the front — an' the star shells soarin' 
 Lightin' up No Man's Land, 
 Mutter of men, an' the big boys roarin' 
 
 Back where the gunners stand. 
 Squelch of the mud, for the skies are pourin' 
 Rotten — ^but ain't it grand? 
 
 Night on the Front — an' the rockets glarin' 
 
 Signals, I guess, an' now 
 Up through the dark our planes are tearin* 
 
 There goes a gas shell "pow!" 
 Look, where the night barrage is flarin* 
 
 Makin' a fearful row! 
 
 Night on the Front — an' you slip an' tumble 
 
 Huntin' the place you're bound, 
 Jerry's batteries roll an' rumble 
 
 Searchin' our hidin' ground, 
 Archie chatters, an' "bumble, bumble'* 
 
 Gothas are dronin' round! 
 
 Night on the Front— an' the front is seethin* 
 
 Bubblin' with death an' hate. 
 Stretched along like a dragon breathin' 
 
 Flames of a fiery fate 
 Or one of them Moloch gods that's heathen, 
 
 Cruel an' fierce, but Great! 
 [39] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 NIGHT AT THE FRONT (continued) 
 
 Night on the Front — an* machine guns drummin* 
 
 Spatterin' mud, lay low! 
 Wow! Hear that? It's a big one hummin', 
 
 Lord, what a gorgeous show! 
 Night on the front — our relief is comin* 
 
 Pick up your pack, let's go! 
 
 t4ol 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 HIS DETAIL 
 
 WHAT I come in for 
 When I joined this war 
 Was to go an' fight the wicked Hun, 
 
 Face the horrid Teut 
 
 On the field, an' shoot 
 Regiments of Boches with my gun; 
 
 So I took my chance 
 
 Sailed for Sunny France 
 (Where I've never even seen the sun) 
 
 And, it seems to me. 
 
 Since I crossed the sea, 
 Diggin' in the mud is all I've done. 
 
 What I do is dig 
 Little holes an' big. 
 
 Rifle pits an' trenches 
 
 Full of rats an* stenches. 
 Dugouts that are anything but trig. 
 
 Rifle? Oh, I've got it. 
 
 But I've never shot it. 
 All I do is dig, 
 
 dig, 
 dig! 
 
 When I've done my trick 
 With my spade an' pick, 
 When I think my job is finished, then 
 
 [41] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 HIS DETAIL (continued) 
 
 Orders comes to go | 
 
 On ahead, an* so 'i 
 
 I must start to diggin* in again ; 
 
 I have tossed enough 
 
 Of this mud an* stuff 
 For to build six pyramids, or ten, 
 
 This man's war has shown 
 
 That the shovel's grown 
 Greater than the rifle — or the pen ! J 
 
 What I do is dig 
 
 Little holes an* big, J 
 
 In the midst of shellfire 
 Shrapnel, gas an' hell fire, 
 Rootin' for my shelter, like a pig ; ,| 
 
 I can't tell no story . 
 
 Full of gleam and glory /^ 
 
 All I did was dig, 
 
 dig, 
 dig! 
 
 [4»]l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "THE AMATEURS" 
 
 (German papers, before the big drive, spoke of Ameri- 
 can troops as "flabby"). 
 
 A YEAR ago the captain was instructor in a col- 
 lege. 
 The sergeant was a plumber and the corporal a 
 clerk, 
 The privates had no glimmering of military knowl- 
 edge 
 They'd never run across it in their ordinary work; 
 But in today's dispatches there's a simple little item 
 Describing how this company went up against the 
 Boche, 
 And smashed a Hun battalion that was coming up to 
 fight *em, 
 And took two German companies as prisoners, 
 b'gosh ! 
 
 The Prussian has his veterans 
 And thinks there are no better *uns. 
 He said our boys were flabby and the greenest of the 
 green. 
 He counted on defeating them 
 But v/hen it came to meeting them 
 His veterans departed very quickly from the scene. 
 
 [43] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "THE AMATEURS" (continued) 
 
 The Captain was a greenhorn at the military science 
 But he flanked the German Major and he sent him to 
 the rear, 
 The shavetails had few tactics but a heap of self re- 
 liance. 
 The sergeants and the corporals were novices, it's 
 clear ; 
 They weren't machine-made soldiers and you never 
 would have picked 'em 
 As equal to the Boches in the goosestep style of war, 
 But when they got in battle with the Teutons, why 
 they licked 'em, 
 And that is just exactly what we sent them over 
 for. 
 
 The Prussians were the gabby ones. 
 They called our soldiers, "Flabby ones," 
 "No match for troops of Kultur who had waded deep 
 in blood," 
 And it was quite a jolt to them. 
 In fact, a thunderbolt to them. 
 To find these flabby Yankees trampling Germans in 
 the mud! 
 
 The Captain wasn't expert in the art of killing babies. 
 The shavetails and the sergeants and the corporals 
 and men 
 Were not innoculated with the military rabies 
 
 Which crucifies old ladies "as a lesson" now and 
 then; 
 They were too soft and flabby for that Teuton brand 
 of slaughter, 
 
 [44]' 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "THE AMATEURS" (continued) 
 
 They'd never quite been hardened to that special 
 point of view. 
 To smash the German soldiers was what made 'em 
 cross the water 
 And — that's a job it's evident they're tough enough 
 to do! 
 
 [45} 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 MUD 
 
 NO, it isn't the shells or the horrible smells 
 (Though they give us quite trouble enough) 
 And it isn't patrol that brings chills to the soul 
 
 Nor the danger and all of that stuff; 
 It isn't the "whee !" of the flying H.E. 
 
 Nor the bullet which lands with a thud. 
 That make of the Front such a nerve-racking stunt. 
 It's the Mud, yes, believe me, the Mud J 
 
 Oh, Bud, 
 You'll certainly swear at the mud; 
 The gummy and gluey 
 And scummy and gooey 
 Result of continual flood. 
 The swamp-and-muck blend of it, 
 World-without-end of it. 
 Mud! 
 
 Oh, it gets everywhere, in your eyes and your hair, 
 
 Your mess-kit, your mask and your gun. 
 You're caked with its slime and three-fourths of the 
 time 
 
 Each shoe weighs exactly a ton, 
 The duck boards sink deep in the stuff and you sleep 
 
 Where it fairly soaks into your blood. 
 That's what we abhor in this weary old war 
 
 The Mud — boy, you said it, — the Mud. 
 [46] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 MUD (continued) 
 
 Oh, Bud, 
 You chew it like cows do a cud ; 
 This grimy, eternal, 
 And slimy, infernal. 
 Admixture that comes with the flood, 
 This worst-of-all-things to us 
 Gosh-how-it-clings-to-us, 
 Mud! 
 
 It drags and it sucks at the wheels of the trucks 
 
 And holds up munitions and chow, 
 It bogs the big guns that we need when the Huns 
 
 Are raising a horrible row; 
 It seeps through the tin that our rations are in ; 
 
 It gets in each bean and each spud. 
 And if, while we scoff at our woes, we're bumped off 
 
 Doggone it, they plant us in Mud ! 
 
 Oh, Bud, 
 I don't want to lie in the mud ! 
 I hope they won't jam me 
 Way down in that clammy, 
 That jelly-like, smelly old flood. 
 That can't-dodge-the-clutch-of-it, 
 Always-too-much-of-it, 
 Mud! 
 
 r47) 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 AERIAL ADVENTURERS 
 
 OUT of the past they roust, 
 Spirit of times that knew 
 Tourney and reckless joust ; 
 They are the chosen few 
 Living the old romance 
 
 Playing the knightly game, 
 Wielding for flashing lance, 
 Bullets that flare and flame. 
 
 Cuirasseurs of the air 
 
 Riding their winged steeds, 
 Forth to the clouds they fare 
 
 Heroes of breathless deeds. 
 Field of the Cloth of Gold 
 
 Never knew such emprise; 
 Knights on their chargers bold 
 
 Swooping across the skies. 
 
 High in the vault above 
 
 Driving a combat Spad, 
 We shall find splendor of 
 
 Arthur and Galahad; 
 Sheepskin for shirt of mail, 
 
 Yammering gun for lance; 
 Ranging the eagles' trail 
 
 Knights of the old Romance. 
 
 [48] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE STUDENT AVIATOR 
 
 THEY gave me army tactics 
 They filled me full. of Math. 
 They taught me how to build a trench 
 
 And march along a path. 
 I had a course in rifle fire 
 
 (Which isn't used in air) 
 They drilled me on the bayonet 
 Till I had skill to spare. 
 
 I learned to take a plane apart 
 
 And set it up again ; 
 I studied motor theory 
 
 For weeks and weeks, and then 
 When I looked forward hopefully 
 
 To zooming through the sky 
 They said I mustn't flip, because 
 
 I hadn't learned to fly. 
 
 So it was school at Kelly Field, 
 
 And Mineola, too, 
 And then they shipped me over here 
 
 And hope sprung up anew. 
 But what I got was school again. 
 
 They forced me to endure 
 A three months' course at Issoudur 
 
 Which followed one at Tours. 
 [49] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE STUDENT AVIATOR (continued) 
 
 For eighteen months of dreary work 
 
 The same, unending round 
 They've fitted me to aviate 
 
 But kept me on the ground. 
 I joined to drive a chasse plane 
 
 And know war's greatest thrill 
 But what I got was drill and books 
 
 And I am at it still. 
 
 It's well enough to ground a man 
 
 Completely, at the start, 
 But wherefore keep him on the ground 
 
 Until you break his heart? 
 I've studied till the war is done, 
 
 I've hoped and dreamed, but I 
 Am sure I'll never drive a bus 
 
 Till I'm too old to fly. 
 
 Cso] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FUTURES 
 (The Pilot) 
 
 ■fir HEN I get through wil 
 '^ ' of this man's army, 
 
 with this man's war and out 
 army, 
 The kind of Hfe I'm looking for is one that cannot 
 
 harm me, 
 No, not for me the speedy plane I used to pot the Hun 
 
 with, 
 A second-handed little Ford will do to have my fun 
 
 with. 
 This thing of dodging through the skies has made me 
 
 tense and nervous, 
 I'll make my tours in Pullman seats when I am 
 
 through the service. 
 And bump to work in trolley cars like other city 
 
 dwellers. 
 And thank my stars I'm not behind the blast of air- 
 propellers. 
 
 That's me when I 
 Don't have to fly 
 With army aviators. 
 The only time 
 I'll ever climb 
 
 Will be in elevators. 
 [51] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FUTURES (continued) 
 
 When I am through with this man's war and out of 
 this man's army, 
 
 I'll be a person who'll abhor whatever might alarm 
 me. 
 
 For after months of split-tail stunts and wild and 
 reckless chances, 
 
 It's me to play things safe and sane in placid circum- 
 stances. 
 
 I'll take my risks in auction bridge and penny-ante 
 poker. 
 
 Where there's no German Fokker bus to be the little 
 joker, 
 
 Let others gamble in the games of danger and endur- 
 ance. 
 
 My family'U be old and gray when they get my insur- 
 ance! 
 
 I'll never take 
 
 The jobs that make 
 
 A fellow's frame grow thinner; 
 I plan to plod 
 Acquire a pod. 
 
 And nod each night at dinner. 
 
 My bus? It's that one over there. Some traveler, that 
 baby. 
 
 And when I'm through, well, yes, sometimes I'll think 
 about her, maybe. 
 
 And dream of shouting "contact, boys," and of her 
 motor roaring. 
 
 And taxi-ing along the field and lifting, zooming, soar- 
 ing, 
 
 [52] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FUTURES (continued) 
 
 Just now, what looks the best to me is peace and rest 
 
 and quiet. 
 I'm planning for the simple life and hoping, when I 
 
 try it, 
 That I won't find this Spad of mine still has the lure 
 
 to charm me. 
 And make me dream of this man's war and long for 
 
 this man's army. 
 
 Say, but she's trim. 
 And swift and slim 
 As through the clouds I weave her, 
 And I'll admit 
 That when I quit 
 I sure will hate to leave her ! 
 
 [53] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ARCHIE 
 (Anti-Aircraft Gun) 
 
 ARCHIE sits on the ground below 
 Pointing his nose in air, 
 Archie's trying his best to throw 
 
 Shells that'll get me fair, 
 He tosses his shoots and spins and curves 
 
 Up where my Nieu-port flits. 
 But he isn't hard on a fellow's nerves 
 For Archibald seldom hits. 
 
 I'm sneakingly fond of Archie 
 Except when he comes too near. 
 
 He adds to the zest of travel 
 Round in the ozone here, 
 
 I look down and grin at Archie 
 Straffing the atmosphere. 
 
 Archie scatters his puffy shells 
 
 Freely along my trail. 
 Filling my path with bumps and swells, 
 
 Up where he sees me sail. 
 And if I stand on my tail and stall 
 
 I oftentimes hear his bark 
 But it's hardly ever he bites at all, 
 
 So dodging him is a lark ! 
 
 [54] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ARCHIE (continued) 
 
 A hopeful old dear is Archie, 
 
 He misses ten thousand tries. 
 But patiently goes on shooting 
 
 At every old thing that flies. 
 Making the birds unhappy 
 
 Here in the pleasant skies. 
 
 Archie's brothers quite frequently 
 
 Join in his air-barrage. 
 Seeking to make a hit on me 
 
 Right in the fuselage. 
 So I split-tail round and I spin and dive 
 
 And thus, when the party's through 
 I'm perfectly safe and much alive 
 
 And — Archibald's healthy, too. 
 
 So here's to your fortune, Archie, 
 You plodding old patient Hun, 
 
 May you never lack shells to scatter 
 Wherever the air-craft run. 
 
 May you hopefully go on straffing 
 And never hit anyone ! 
 
 C55] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 FRITZ? He is all you say, 
 Bandit and Hun, that guy; 
 But, when he comes your way 
 Zooming up through the sky, 
 Riding a Fokker bus 
 
 Sitting up in the sun. 
 He is a fighting cuss, 
 He is a bird, the Hun ! 
 
 Many who sneered at Fritz 
 
 — Thought him a cinch, somehow,- 
 Lie, with their planes in bits, 
 
 Shoving up daisies now. 
 If you prefer to live 
 
 Rather than tumble, wrecked. 
 You will be wise to give 
 
 Jerry his due respect. 
 
 Strapped in his "office" seat, 
 
 Flipping around in air, 
 He is a job to beat. 
 
 He is an ace, a bear. 
 Dogfight or two man scrap 
 
 He is a peacherine, 
 So, when you crash that chap 
 
 You are a bird that's keen. 
 [56] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TRIBUTE (continued) 
 
 Like him? Not me, and yet 
 
 Nevertheless, I feel, 
 Fritz, when in air we've met 
 
 Worthy my lead and steel. 
 Though I am out to kill 
 
 All of his tribe I can. 
 Speaking in terms of skill, 
 
 Fritz is a first-class man. 
 
 Who was it called him "thick," 
 
 I haven't found him so. 
 Nary a stunt or trick 
 
 Jerry can't do and show; 
 Get him I must, and do. 
 
 Pluck him from out the sky. 
 Nevertheless it's true 
 
 Little old Fritz can Fly! 
 
 [57] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LITTLE GUY 
 
 VT^OU never can tell by a Frenchy's looks 
 
 ■■- What kind of a fightin' man he is, 
 The hero bird that you meet in books 
 
 Is a husky guy with a noble phiz, 
 But I went to a vaudeville show last night 
 
 An' I bought a drink from the waiter there. 
 He was four feet seven or so in height, 
 
 But the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre ! 
 
 He was just a kid with a girlish face. 
 
 An' his weight was ninety or ninety-five, 
 His figger hadn't no manly grace. 
 
 His eyes was gentle, but Man Alive ! 
 Though he looked too fragile to pack a gun. 
 
 He'd croaked ten Boches, that was his share, 
 An' got six wounds in that hell, Verdun; 
 
 So the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre ! 
 
 With fifty pounds on his slender back, 
 
 He'd march for days till he reached the Front, 
 You'd swear he couldn't of borne a pack 
 
 But somehow or other he did the stunt; 
 In gas an' shell fire he'd stood the gaff 
 
 An' gone through things that 'ud raise your 
 hair, 
 His meek appearance would make you laugh, 
 
 But the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre. 
 [58] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LITTLE GUY (continued) 
 
 So I sits and looks at that puny chap, 
 
 And I says to myself, and knows it's true, 
 "It ain't your body that wins a scrap. 
 
 It's the spirit in you that sees you through. 
 And the soul of that kid is the soul of France, 
 
 The world's great hope and the Hun's despair, 
 The boy's not much to a careless glance, 
 
 But the son of a gun has the Croix de Guerre !" 
 
 [59l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE ARMY DOCTOR 
 
 HE gives us pills for many ills, 
 An' all the pills the same ; 
 No matter what a guy has got 
 
 The matter with his frame. 
 When we get well from calomel 
 
 He's slipped us by the ton, 
 He thinks for sure our rapid cure 
 Is something he has done. 
 
 Oh, the Army Doc is a bird that's fine, 
 He paints us over with iodine. 
 But for all we jeer an' for all we knock. 
 He's a regular fellow, the Army Doc! 
 
 For when a "show" is planned we know 
 
 The Doc is on our track, 
 Where H.E.'s rain ; to soothe the pain 
 
 Of wounded, crawlin' back. 
 He takes his chance in our advance 
 
 With surgeon's knife in hand; 
 Where gas clouds lurk he does his work 
 
 — A job I couldn't stand. 
 
 For though I've got kind of a fightin* nerve, 
 It's another sort of thing to serve 
 In a bloody station where wounded flock. 
 An* that is the job of the Army Doc ! 
 [60] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE ARMY DOCTOR (continued) 
 
 With probe an' splint he does his stint, 
 
 Without no rest or sleep, 
 Until he drops or something stops 
 
 The wounded lines that creep 
 To get his aid. An' when he's made 
 
 His final dressin', then 
 His nap he takes, an' when he wakes, 
 He's on the job again. 
 
 There's many a simple wooden cross. 
 That marks the place of a Doctor's loss; 
 But many a soldier's cross ain't there, 
 Because of the Army Doctor's care. 
 He's true blue color that will not crock. 
 An' I sure salutes to the Army Doc! 
 
 [6i] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FRENCHY 
 
 THEY called us Yanks and we called them Frogs 
 But what is there in a name? 
 fn summer's dust and in winter's bogs, 
 We'd seen how they played the game. 
 We'd watched 'em march with a slouchin* gait. 
 
 Their packs was a holy fright, 
 They rattled an' banged like a local freight, 
 But Lord, how those Frogs could fight! 
 
 'Twas "no comprenny," an' "ne parlais," 
 
 With most of them birds we met, 
 But we liked each other a lot, I'll say. 
 
 Them poilus is men, you bet. 
 Their uniforms fit like a burlap bag. 
 
 Their caps are a joke, for fair. 
 Their belts are loose an' their trousers sag, 
 
 But the Frogs in a scrap are There. 
 
 No, they ain't so much when it comes to style, 
 
 They're stubby an' short an* small. 
 But there's something fine in their sunny smile. 
 
 An* the light in their eyes, an* all, 
 That sure did get us, an' though their ways 
 
 We couldn't quite understand. 
 We found, in the worst of our fightin* days. 
 
 The poilus were right on hand. 
 £62] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FRENCHY (continued) 
 
 We called 'em Frogs, an* they called us Yanks, 
 
 But brothers we was, ah, oui, 
 An' we didn't laugh at their shamblin' ranks, 
 
 When we thought of their pedigree, 
 We fought beside 'em against the Boche, 
 
 Till all of the war was through. 
 An' the feller that rides the Frogs, b'gosh, 
 
 Will mix with the doughboy, too ! 
 
 [63I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE DOUGHBOY 
 
 WE'RE all of us fightin' the war, the job that we 
 come over for, 
 The rough engineers an' the boys who shift gears 
 On the trucks that come up with munitions. 
 The shavetails as fresh as the breeze, the busy old 
 nosey M.P.s, 
 An' the S.O.S. guys, who keep movin' supplies, 
 Through all kinds of times an* conditions ; 
 But when you come down to the plain fightin' stunt, 
 
 With all of the strain there is to it. 
 The heart-breakin' work at the shell-hammered front, 
 The Doughboy's the bird who must do it! 
 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 Grab your pack an' kit, 
 A fresh division's needed, 
 
 You've got to pound the grit, 
 Can't you hear the shellin', 
 
 See the star-shell's arch? 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 Time for you to march! 
 
 The general looks at the map an* dopes out the plan 
 of the scrap. 
 His orders are made an* the words are relayed, 
 An' the forces for action assemble, 
 [64] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE DOUGHBOY (continued) 
 
 The aeroplanes flicker through space, the batteries 
 wheel into place; 
 A signal, a roar, an' the heavy shells soar. 
 The earth an' the atmosphere tremble ! 
 But infantry's waitin' in shellholes an' pits. 
 
 Their shelter wherever they make it. 
 For though the guns shatter the Hun line to bits. 
 It's up to the Doughboy to take it. 
 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 Out where bullets spurt, 
 Eatin' gas an' shrapnel, 
 
 Burrowin' in dirt. 
 When the shells have hammered 
 
 Jerry in his nest. 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 You must do the rest! 
 
 Sometimes he has mess tent an* bed, but mostly he's 
 up where he's fed. 
 Emergency truck, an' sleeps in the muck, 
 Curled up, to keep warm, with his Buddy ; 
 He stands every kind of a bump, the whiz-bangs, the 
 H.E.'s that "crump !" 
 The gas shells that plow in the dirt an' go "Pow !" 
 The shrapnel that makes the work bloody; 
 The cold an' the stink an' the hunger an' thirst. 
 
 He bears 'em an' cusses, but no boy 
 Is better at fightin' when things are the worst. 
 Than Mr. American Doughboy! 
 
 [65] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE DOUGHBOY (continued) 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 Hear old Jerry squeal. 
 How he hates the close work, 
 
 How he loathes the steel! 
 When you jumped his trenches, 
 
 Backward Fritz was hurled, 
 Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 
 
 Sittin' on the World! 
 
 [W] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE RUNNER 
 
 /^ F all the jobs in this man's war 
 ^•^ I'd just as soon steer clear of his, 
 It ain't a thing I'd care much for, 
 
 To dodge out there where bullets whiz, 
 To squirm an' duck where shells have struck, 
 
 An' face m.g.s that bark an' crack. 
 While Jerry pots you with his shots, 
 
 An' you can't stop to pot him back. 
 
 It's bad enough to climb the top, 
 
 An' charge the trenches — at a walk. 
 But still, when Jerry tries to stop 
 
 Your progress, well, your gun can talk; 
 It's tough, all right, but you can fight. 
 
 Give Fritz a bayonet massage ; 
 The runner takes your chance, then makes 
 
 His way back through our own barrage ! 
 
 IVe seen a runner start to race. 
 
 Then crumple, bumped off by the Hun; 
 I've seen another take his place. 
 
 An' when he fell, another one 
 Go stumblin' on till he is gone 
 
 Where shellfire makes the earth a chum, 
 I've seen him go, but this I know, 
 
 I seldom see that guy return. 
 [67] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE RUNNER (continued) 
 
 I think I got good fightin' nerves 
 
 This game requires 'em, understand? 
 But my hat's off to him who serves 
 As runner over No Man's Land; 
 Retreat, advance, he takes his chance. 
 However tickUsh it may be; 
 
 Some guy must get that duty, yet, 
 I'd just as soon it wasn't me ! 
 
 [fiai 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ANZACS 
 
 JACQUES is a peach of a fighter. Tommy's a he- 
 person, too, 
 
 Tony's a regular fellow ; nevertheless it is true 
 
 Anzacs are "our kind of people," closer than all of the 
 rest, 
 
 Though they come out of the north an* south, out of 
 the east an' the west; 
 
 Big shouldered, six-foot Australians, wearin' their tip- 
 tilted hats, 
 
 Africans sent up from Capetown, men from Saskat- 
 chewan's flats, 
 
 Guys out of distant New Zealand, hearin* Brittania's 
 call, 
 
 Fightin' like tigers for England, but "our kind of folks, 
 after all." 
 
 *Our kind of people," 
 From near an* from far. 
 
 Much more like us 
 Than like English, they are; 
 
 Look like us, talk like us. 
 Fight like we fight, 
 
 Anzacs are "our kind of people" 
 All right! 
 
 [69] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ANZACS (continued) 
 
 Jacques has a way that is pleasant but we can't talk 
 
 with him much, 
 Tommy we're likely to row with, round about bar- 
 rooms an' such. 
 Sort of a neighborhood mix-up, kind of a sociable 
 
 scrap ; 
 But, when we meet up with Anzacs, here from all over 
 
 the map. 
 Arm-in-arm Buddies we make them, whether on leave 
 
 or in line. 
 Raisin' the same style of rumpus, so we get on with 
 
 them fine. 
 Somehow we fit with each other, any old place we may 
 
 be, 
 Fightin' beside *em in battle, or frolicin' round in 
 
 Paree ! 
 
 "Our kind of people,'* 
 An' our style of folks, 
 Learnin* our slang, 
 
 Understandin' our jokes. 
 Lantern-jawed, long-legged, 
 
 D evil-may-care, 
 Anzacs are "our kind of people** 
 For fair! 
 
 Part of Britannia's empire, servin* their land an' their 
 
 king. 
 Yet, when you look at *em marchin', they have a style 
 
 an' a swing 
 More like our troops than the English; so when I've 
 
 watched 'em I've felt 
 
 [70] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ANZACS (continued) 
 
 They are the Yanks of Alberta, Yanks from the Bush 
 
 an' the Veldt, 
 Products of our kind of climate, men from our kind of 
 
 domain, 
 Lands that are new an' uncrowded, wide lands of 
 
 mountain an* plain. 
 Realms where the wind an' the sunshine give every 
 
 fibre a tang, 
 — That's why we get on together, that's why they're 
 
 our kind of gang. 
 
 "Our kind of people," 
 
 From our kind of home 
 Where there is space 
 
 For a fellow to roam, 
 Where the life's free. 
 
 An' the ozone is pure, 
 Anzacs are "our kind of people'* 
 For sure! 
 
 t7ij 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE SHAVETAIL 
 
 TO them I'm a "Louie," that's all. 
 They hear me with patience and phlegm, 
 While I— well, at heart, I just fall 
 
 In something like worship of them; 
 There never were such boys before, 
 
 It may be there won't be again. 
 My smiling, unscareable, gentle and terrible 
 Bully American Men ! 
 
 It*s "Come to salute" when we meet, 
 In barrack and billet and street, 
 But if I should do as I felt, 
 In spite of my bar and my belt, 
 I'd hug 'em like brothers, and then, 
 I'd take off my cap to my men. 
 
 They view me as sort of a joke. 
 
 Obey me because it's the code. 
 But I sort of swallow and choke 
 
 When seeing them march up a road. 
 Oh, boy, they're so big-limbed and strong. 
 
 So calm and so cheerful that when 
 I march with a crowd of them I'm so darned 
 proud of them, 
 
 I want to cheer for my men. 
 [72I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE SHAVETAIL (continued) 
 
 It's "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," they say. 
 For that is the service man's way, 
 But save for that rule, I've a hunch 
 I'd like to be "Bud" to that bunch, 
 (Provided they'd let me) for then 
 I might reach the heart of my men! 
 
 They'll plunge into hell at the word, 
 
 Come out of it, half of them gone. 
 And then, as though nothing'd occurred. 
 
 Pick out a fresh hell — and go on! 
 They're humorous, tender and stern. 
 
 And, oh, but it's great to have been 
 Along with these cootie-ful, muddified, beautiful 
 
 Gorgeous American Men! 
 
 It's "Louie" they call me, but who 
 
 Is likely to mind if they do? 
 
 They've done the real work in this show, 
 
 I'll say that they have, and I know. 
 
 And, take it from me once again. 
 
 There's nothing on earth like my men ! 
 
 [73] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TOMMY 
 
 OUEER about Tommy, we can't get along with him, 
 Always in wrong with him 
 Can't seem to fix it. 
 Ought to be chums, but whenever we chat with him 
 We hit the mat with him 
 Gee, how we mix it! 
 He's our blood brother, but, somehow or other 
 
 When we meet Tommy it's "Call for the Cop!" 
 Yet when we're waiting in trenches that hide us 
 We like to know that old Tommy's beside us 
 Ready to climb with us over the top. 
 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, here's lookin* at you; 
 We fight you whenever you heave into view, 
 But when the guns boom an* there's trouble to 
 
 share. 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, we're glad you are there! 
 
 Strange about Tommy, we like the plain style of him, 
 Love the warm smile of him 
 Never down-hearted 
 Yet when we meet him we need the M. P.'s around 
 Swarming like bees around 
 Getting us parted; 
 Blood they say's thicker than water or licker 
 Still, it runs fast when we gather, I've found, 
 But when barrages our ear-drums are floggin* 
 
 {74J 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TOMMY (continued) 
 
 When a drive starts that is dogged an' sloggin* 
 Tommy's a bird we like stickin' around ! 
 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, here's to you, old dear. 
 We can't agree, though the reason ain't clear. 
 Yet when the game is to shatter the Hun, 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, we fight him as one. 
 
 Truth about Tommy is, he stands all right with us 
 Though he will fight with us 
 When we're together, 
 Down in our hearts we admire the brave wit he has. 
 Love the grim grit he has. 
 Built for rough weather; 
 What if we batter each other, no matter, 
 
 When the gas thickens and shells crash an' whine 
 When it's close work in a battle that's bloody 
 Tommy's our pal an' our chum an' our Buddy, 
 We like to know he is next to our line ! 
 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, here's to you, old horse 
 You're the style soldier we're proud to endorse. 
 Though we may scrap with you when you are 
 
 nigh. 
 Tommy, oh Tommy, you're some little guy! 
 
 [75} 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 w 
 
 ENGINEERS 
 
 HEN the convoy crawls on a long white road 
 Straight to the blazing line. 
 While the drivers nod as they guide their load 
 
 On where the star shells shine, 
 If a two ten drops with a roaring crash 
 
 The big trucks cease to roll 
 And the CO. growls as he views the smash 
 And swears at the ten-foot hole; 
 
 "Job for the Engineers, 
 
 Bring up the wrecking crew. 
 Shovel and pick v/ill do the trick 
 Then we can go on through." 
 They're on the spot, you bet 
 
 Soon, with a clash of gears. 
 We're on the way for the road's O. K. 
 
 Fixed by the Engineers! 
 
 When the storm troops wait at the river banks 
 
 And each stone bridge is blown. 
 And the stream's too deep for the fat old tanks 
 
 And pontoons must be thrown; 
 Where the water boils with the shell and shot 
 
 It "Engineers 'toot sweet'*" 
 They will lose one-half of the men they've got 
 
 But build that bridge, complete. 
 
 *'Tout d' suite'— right away! 
 
 [76] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 ENGINEERS (continued) 
 
 "Job for the Engineers, 
 Never you mind the loss 
 Fritz has a hate but the troops can't wait 
 
 See that they get across. 
 You won't get no rewards 
 
 Hear any shouts or cheers, 
 Bring up your mob for here's a job, 
 Job for the Engineers." 
 
 Oh, they mend the wire where it guards the front 
 
 They dig the dug-outs deep, 
 And to tunnel mines is their steady stunt 
 
 Like moles that get no sleep, 
 They take their chance where the gas clouds lurk 
 
 And I'll say it appears, 
 That darn small glory and beaucoup work 
 
 Comes to the Engineers. 
 
 "Job for the Engineers, 
 
 Something that 'can't be done'," 
 Nevertheless they'll do it, yes. 
 
 That's how they get their fun, 
 Armed with a kit of tools 
 
 Careless of hopes or fears. 
 Big jobs or small, you simply call. 
 
 Call for the Engineers. 
 
 [77] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE SMOKES 
 
 SEND 'em over in the daylight 
 When there's Boches they can see, 
 An* they'll rush 'em with the butt or bayonet ; 
 But at night, or in the gray light 
 When the dawn is strugglin' free 
 You can't trust the crazy dinges on a bet ! 
 They get wary at the shadows an' they lose their 
 nerve an' break 
 At the shells that seem to come from God-knows- 
 where. 
 They forget that they are fightin' for their dear old 
 country's sake. 
 An' they simply want to get away from there! 
 
 'Taint for me to criticise 'em 
 
 For I know that they can fight 
 When you put 'em in a scrimmage, hand-to-hand; 
 But as buddies I don't prize 'em 
 When the job is sittin' tight 
 Where the shells is makin' powder of the land. 
 So in chargin', hell for leather, where a man can see 
 his mark, 
 You can count upon the smokes for showin' prime. 
 But for waitin' an' for stickin' an' for sloggin' through 
 the dark 
 I would rather have the white men every time ! 
 
 [78] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE REGULAR 
 
 ("And Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool, you bet that 
 Tommy sees!") 
 
 I'M one of the Regular Army Men, enlisted before 
 the war 
 When fifteen per was the pay we got — an* learned to 
 
 be soldiers for — 
 I joined in the days when Olive Drab was lackin' in 
 
 real eclat. 
 An' it wasn't often a doughboy found a "welcome" 
 
 upon the mat. 
 I'm a hero now, an* the ladies bow, an' it's pleasant 
 
 enough, — an' yet 
 It's worryin' me how long 'twill be till the people again 
 
 forget ! 
 
 'Only a common soldier," 
 
 That's what they used to say 
 Though they must of seen I was straight an' 
 clean 
 
 The same as I am today, 
 I looks at the flags a-wavin', 
 
 I thinks of them times that's past. 
 An' I'm sayin' "Yes, it is fine, I guess, 
 
 — How long is it gonna last?" 
 
 [79] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE REGULAR (continued) 
 
 The National guard comes homeward from fightin' 
 
 the ugly Teuts, 
 The drafted men get their papers an' put on their 
 
 civvie suits; 
 They all of them done their portion, we regulars done 
 
 the same. 
 But we gotta go on playin' the steady old army 
 
 game. 
 They finished their bit, all right, an' quit; their glory 
 
 will not be lost, 
 An' the regular force gets cheers, of course, but — 
 
 I have my fingers crossed ! 
 
 "Only a common soldier," 
 
 It used to be said with sneers, 
 An' I still recall every slight an' all 
 
 The scorn of them bygone years. 
 Just now I'm a social lion 
 
 Enjoyin' it while I can 
 Till the graft goes bust an' they say, "He's 
 just 
 
 A Regular Army man, 
 A roughneck brute in a khaki suit, 
 
 A Regular Army man !" 
 
 [80] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE MARINES 
 
 SAID the Doughboy, "You Marines 
 Made a rep at Chateau-Thierry." 
 Said the Leatherneck — three wound stripes on his 
 sleeve — 
 "We have fought in many scenes. 
 An' you fellers make we weary; 
 When you say we 'made a rep,' I get a peeve. 
 We're the oldest arm of service 
 An' the world knows what our nerve is 
 An' our rep was made a hundred years ago ; 
 By a thousand fights we've gained it, 
 Chateau-Thierry just sustained it, 
 Which is something else again, believe me. Bo!" 
 
 Said the Doughboy, "Well, it's clear 
 We don't hear so much about you 
 Since we got a lot of doughboys on the job !" 
 
 Said the Leatherneck, "Look here. 
 
 Though by rights I otta clout you, 
 I'll just put a thought or two within' your knob. 
 
 We weren't very great in number 
 
 When we started ; now we slumber 
 Under crosses, or the best of us are there; 
 
 And the rest, their job's completed. 
 
 With an arm or leg deleted 
 You can't do much further fightin' anywhere!" 
 [8i] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE MARINES (continued) 
 
 Said the Doughboy, "You're so proud 
 An' you do a lot of struttin' 
 An' you talk as though your bunch was all the 
 cheese." 
 Said the Leatherneck, "Our crowd, 
 While your eye-teeth you was cuttin* 
 Had been fightin' all around the seven seas. 
 Belleau Woods an' Porto Rico 
 An' Manila an' Tampico, 
 Pekin, China, an* Havana hold our dead; 
 An' if we are talkin* strong to 
 Boost the corps that we belong to 
 It's because there's good an* plenty to be said I" 
 
 rsa] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE YID BATTALION 
 
 THEY took a bunch of Hebrews from New York's 
 East Side 
 They put 'em into khaki and they made 'em drill ; 
 They bronzed 'em in the sunshine and they taught 
 'em pride 
 Pride in being soldiers who could fight with skill. 
 
 Pallid "cloak-and-suiters" from the sweat shop crowd 
 
 Changed to husky doughboys and were shipped 
 
 to France, 
 
 Marched to front-line trenches, where they did us 
 
 proud, 
 
 All that they had needed was a white man's chance. 
 
 Through the Argonne forest where the Boches lay 
 Stormed this Yid battalion in a charge superb. 
 
 Warriors blithe and fearless, who but yesterday 
 Overflowed the sidewalks and the Grand street 
 curb. 
 
 Valiant, over-eager, they were trapped by Huns, 
 Cut off and surrounded in the Argonne Wood, 
 
 Sniped by hidden rifles and by German guns ; 
 
 Did these Yids surrender? No, by God, they stood! 
 [83] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE YID BATTALION (continued) 
 Out of ammunition and of rations, too. 
 
 Looking every minute in the face of death. 
 In war's fiery furnace they were proven true, 
 
 True to all we fight for — to each man's last breath. 
 
 "Death," the Teutons signalled, "is your certain fate, 
 But if you surrender we will treat you well," 
 
 Brief, profane, immortal was their answer, straight ; 
 Shouted, all together, "You can go to Hell!" 
 
 Rescuers released them, but as white as flame 
 Shines their light of glory not to be denied ; 
 
 Alamo, Thermopylae — matched by men who came 
 Fighting through the Argonne from New York's 
 East Side! 
 
 [»4] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "BUDDY" 
 
 WHAT does "Buddy" mean? 
 It's like this; you see 
 All that I can tell is what 
 "Buddy" means to me. 
 
 It means a feller you like an' chum with. 
 Play an' sleep with an' fight an' bum with, 
 Made of the stuff that you're designed of 
 Partner, an' pal an' brother, kind of. 
 One who shares in the pup tent's shelter 
 When the whole blame world is a muddy welter, 
 It means that all that you have goes double, 
 Luck an' money an' fun an' trouble! 
 
 "Buddy" means there's a guy beside you 
 Ready to scrap if the others ride you, 
 One who'll jolly you, jeer you, cuss you, 
 An' carry you back if a shell should muss you; 
 One you'll swear by an' stand the gaff for 
 Break your last wet "pill" in half for, 
 One you'll lie for an' take the blame for, 
 Knowin* it's you he'd do the same for. 
 
 "Buddy" means there's a chap who hands you 
 Knocks an' boosts, an' who understands you. 
 One to wade with through fire an' water 
 Close at hand in the reddest slaughter; 
 
 [85] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 'BUDDY" (continued) 
 
 Who, if you're killed as the battle blazes, 
 Drops a tear where you push up daisies, 
 "Buddy" means, — why, it don't need study- 
 Somebody like my good old "Buddy"! 
 
 What does "Buddy" mean? 
 
 It's like this, you see 
 All that I can tell is what 
 
 "Buddy" means to me! 
 
 186! 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "SON FAIRY ANN" 
 
 (Which is Buddy's version of the French *C' ne fait 
 rien' meaning, "It doesn't matter," or "what's the 
 odds?") 
 
 WAR kind of gets a man in time 
 So he just takes things as they come, 
 The smells, the sights, the dust, the slime, 
 
 The good chow or the rotten slum, 
 If luck goes right or wholly wrong 
 
 He stands it all the best he can 
 And takes whatever comes along 
 With just these words, "Son Fairy Ann." 
 
 At first he thinks he's gonna be 
 
 A hero, doing noble stunts 
 For which he'll get the D.S.C. 
 
 And win a captaincy at once. 
 But when he is a private still 
 
 A year from when he first began 
 He swallows Fortune's bitter pill 
 
 And simply says, "Son Fairy Ann. 
 
 His girl from home, she throws him down 
 His mother's letters don't arrive 
 
 He can't get leave to go to town 
 He's wet an' cold an* half alive 
 
 [87] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 'SON FAIRY ANN" (continued) 
 
 His clothes are full of things that crawl 
 
 He fights an' does what others plan 
 He sees his closest buddies fall 
 
 An' learns to say, "Son Fairy Ann." 
 
 An' though he may not like his lot 
 
 He sticks, because, to put it terse. 
 He's built that way, and, Hke as not. 
 
 If he should change he'd get it worse; 
 Thirst, hunger, death, they all are one 
 
 He takes them Hke an army man 
 And dreams of home when war is done 
 
 As for the rest— "Son Fairy Ann." 
 
 [88] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 KNOWLEDGE 
 
 I HAD lived softly, trodden pleasant ways, 
 Sounded no depths of life, looked on the mere 
 Shell of the world, with lazy critic gaze. 
 Heard its great voice with inattentive ear; 
 War snatched me from the cloying atmosphere 
 Of clubs and foyers to adventure high. 
 
 Taught me to feel, hate, love, endure and fear, 
 I lived and fought with men and saw them die! 
 
 What spaces I have spanned in these great days! 
 
 How far am I from that glib, insincere 
 Cynic who summed existence in a phrase 
 
 And looked on all things human with a sneer! 
 
 One learns the verities when over here. 
 Where red war flames along the arching sky. 
 
 And in a life that strips souls stark and sheer, 
 I lived and fought with men and saw them die! 
 
 Comradeship I have found where cannon blaze, 
 
 Loyalty to the end, abiding cheer 
 In "hell's despite" ; courage beyond all praise 
 
 And life held cheap because a faith is dear; 
 
 Of old I saw the world an ugly smear, 
 Not knowing that my sight was all awry 
 
 But war's rough hand swept my dull vision clear, 
 I lived and fought with men and saw them die. 
 [89] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 KNOWLEDGE (continued) 
 
 Envoy 
 
 Thank God the wrath of war will disappear, 
 Yet this it brought me, which I could not buy. 
 
 The memory that through one flaming year 
 I lived and fought with men and saw them die ! 
 
 [90] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FED UP 
 
 ADVENTURE'S fine to talk about, I'll say. 
 But I have had enough of it in mine, 
 I dreamed about the "glory of the fray" 
 
 Until at last they put me into line, 
 And there I learned the beauties of fighting rats 
 and cooties, 
 And cold and mud and Boches that I met, 
 I've known the noise and gore of it, 
 I've had enough and more of it 
 
 You bet, 
 I'll hit the trail for home without regret. 
 
 I s'pose I'm glad I've seen the thing, at that, 
 For I know how I'll swell around at home. 
 
 Tell how I wore a mask and for a hat, 
 Sported a nice tin derby on my dome; 
 
 But in my life at present I find it darned un- 
 pleasant ; 
 This war thing isn't any pleasure tour, 
 
 And I have had enough of it 
 For sure, 
 
 It doesn't take a lot to make a cure. 
 
 Don't get me wrong, I haven't any kick, 
 I'm here to stay until this job is done 
 
 But when we've won the war and turned the trick 
 Believe me, I don't want another one, 
 [91] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 FED UP (continued) 
 
 I've seen my share of slaughter and I will cross 
 the water 
 As thankful and as pleased as I can be, 
 Some men ain't had their fill of it, they'll miss, 
 they say, the thrill of it, 
 Not me! 
 When Uncle Sam says "Beat it," I'll agree. 
 
 Some people are afraid when we return 
 
 We'll be a warlike bunch. It makes me grin, 
 For most of us have had our chance to learn 
 What war is and to hate the thing like sin ; 
 Why say, it makes me dizzy to think of getting 
 busy 
 At work and play like peaceful people do. 
 Leave all this dirty, cheesy life and start a soft 
 and easy life 
 All new, 
 Say, after this, no war for me, I'm through. 
 
 [9*] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE HIDDEN THINGS 
 
 THERE'S things a fellow talks about 
 To almost anyone. 
 Stories he's always reeling out 
 
 Of fighting, work or fun. 
 But often j^ou'll go through a heap 
 
 Of life that's hard and grim 
 And with some chap you'll eat and sleep 
 A year, before he'll speak what's deep 
 Down in the heart of him. 
 
 The gentle, hidden tender things 
 
 All locked and sealed away, 
 Behind his ready, careless speech 
 
 Of women, wine and pay. 
 For all the real and sacred things 
 
 Are rarely on display. 
 
 You'll know some bird who's loud and tough, 
 
 Full of black oaths and such. 
 Whose speech is crammed with bar-room stuff, 
 
 And then, some day, you'll touch 
 The latchstring to that roughneck's heart 
 
 And find, concealed within, 
 Something he's thought of from the start, 
 A secret dream he's placed apart. 
 
 From revel, lust and sin. 
 
 [93] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE HIDDEN THINGS (continued) 
 
 Some little thing, some lovely thing 
 
 He's kept and cherished so; 
 He's thinking that the light of day 
 
 Will make it fade and go, 
 And half afraid, and half ashamed 
 
 He seldom lets it show. 
 
 And that's the way with all the lot 
 
 Who joined to go to war, 
 We talk of many things, but not 
 
 Of what we're fighting for; 
 Guns, chow and smokes, the last big drive. 
 
 Gossip and news we've heard. 
 Who's missing, wounded, dead, alive. 
 But, of the cause for which we strive, 
 
 You'll scarcely hear a word. 
 
 For that's one of the deeper things 
 That fellows always shove 
 
 Way out of sight, like thoughts of God 
 And those of Her you love, 
 
 The truer things, the greater things 
 We shrink from speaking of. 
 
 [94] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 AMBITION 
 
 THE mighty tunes that you stand up to. 
 That throb and peal with a stately beat, 
 Are not the sort that I want to do, 
 
 But the rag whose witchery stirs the feet. 
 For when men march through a shell-wrecked 
 street 
 Or move up into the lines, at night. 
 
 It's ragtime airs that their lips repeat 
 And those are the tunes I'd like to write. 
 
 Oh, the tunes men play on a fine tooth comb 
 
 In trench and barracks, on bivouac, 
 When there's not a star in the inky dome 
 
 And never a light must stab the black; 
 
 The tunes men hum as with creaking pack 
 They slog along to the weary fight — 
 
 Whatever musical art they lack. 
 Those are the tunes I'd like to write! 
 
 Let the critics sneer, as the critics will, 
 
 But the tunes men sing where the earth and sky 
 Are spewing death, are the tunes whose thrill 
 
 Is somehow magical, fine and high; 
 
 They have a glory none may deny 
 Though the airs be simple, the burdens light. 
 
 If they're hummed by men as they fight — and die, 
 Those are the tunes I'd like to write. 
 [95] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LOST BUDDY 
 
 PEACE doesn't mean the same to me 
 As it would — yesterday; 
 Me and my buddy'd planned to be 
 
 Life pardners, all the way 
 We thought we'd start a little shop 
 
 After this bloody show, 
 After the guns come to a stop, 
 But now, it can't be so. 
 
 I'm used to seein' comrades fall 
 
 About me, everywhere, 
 I liked 'em and I missed *em all 
 
 But muttered, "C'est la Guerre." 
 It was the price that must be paid 
 
 By men who take a chance 
 In this great game of death that's played 
 
 Upon the soil of France. 
 
 But this is different, my friend 
 
 Fell in last night's attack. 
 Today the war is at an end 
 
 But that won't bring him back ; 
 His life was lost in vain, for peace 
 
 Was on the way. His blood. 
 Mingled with rains that never cease, 
 
 Seeps through the Flanders mud. 
 [96] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LOST BUDDY (continued) 
 
 So while the others cheer the news 
 
 Of peace, I curse at Fate, 
 My buddy's underneath this ooze ; 
 
 His life was spent — too late. 
 There is no chance, nor will there be 
 
 To make the Huns repay, 
 And peace don't mean the same to me 
 
 As it would yesterday. 
 
 [97? 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE FIGHTING EDGE 
 
 ENGLISH and Belgians, Italians and French 
 Fought like grim fury in dug-out and trench, 
 More than four years of it — God, what a spell 
 Spent in the nearest there is to a hell! 
 All of our losses seem tiny and light 
 Stacked up beside of their total, all right; 
 But this much we did, in the last great attack 
 We started Fritz on the trail that leads back! 
 
 Others have lost more 
 
 In battles that cost more, 
 Others held eighty percent of the line, 
 
 All that we claim 
 
 Is this share of the fame. 
 We started Fritz on his way to the Rhine. 
 
 Down all the ages the world will recall 
 Tommy, who, fighting with back to the wall, 
 Stopped the Boche gang; and the poets will sing 
 Praises of poilus who did that same thing; 
 But, when the Fritzies had driven that wedge 
 Close, close to Paris, we blunted its edge, 
 Smashed it, in fact, and with one nasty crack 
 Started the Boches to traveling back. 
 
 Others — you said it — 
 Earned lots of credit, 
 They fought our fight long before we came in, 
 [98] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE FIGHTING EDGE (continued) 
 Only, we say 
 In a casual way 
 We started Fritz on the hike for Berlin! 
 
 We was all fresh, young and vigorous guys, 
 We hadn't suffered like other allies. 
 They was all tired and weary of war; 
 We'd been the same in a year or two more. 
 Still, the truth stands, that of all at the front 
 We were the lads pulled the victory stunt. 
 Doughboys, marines, fresh from over the foam, 
 We started Fritz in a hurry for home. 
 
 We didn't know 
 
 He was a foe 
 Couldn't be smashed, so we made the attack. 
 
 Others, it's true 
 
 Saw the job through. 
 But, it was.U5 that had started him back ! 
 
 [99I 
 
 \^ 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 "I'LL TELL THE WORLD" 
 
 TWO service stripes, two wound stripes, too. 
 Upon my sleeve. 
 It's beaucoup war that I've been through; 
 
 You get me, Steve; 
 Through Belleau an' the Argonne drive 
 
 Our crowd was hurled, 
 An' me — I'm pleased that I'm alive, 
 I'll tell the world. 
 
 Home was my little resting spot 
 
 Before this show 
 Since then I've learned an awful lot 
 
 An' now I know, 
 For all I've seen of cities gay 
 
 An' seas that swirled. 
 The place for me is U. S. A. 
 
 I'll tell the world! 
 
 I once took pride in bein* tough. 
 
 Tough as could be. 
 But though this job of war is tough 
 
 It's softened me. 
 For after all the battle stress 
 
 Where death is hurled 
 You learn to value gentleness, 
 
 I'U tell the world. 
 
 [lool 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 TLL TELL THE WORLD" (continued) 
 I've faced the luck of war with men 
 
 Of many ranks, 
 I wouldn't face that hell again 
 
 For beaucoup francs. 
 But now we've finished up the game 
 
 An' flags is furled, 
 I'm glad we're through — an' glad I came, 
 
 I'll tell the world! 
 
 [lOl] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 WONDERMENT 
 
 JUST now I'm thinkin' when I get home. 
 There's nothin' under the sky's blue dome 
 Will ever tempt me to go away, 
 I'll settle down with a sigh — an' stay; 
 But say, 
 I wonder; 
 After a while when things grow tame 
 Maybe I'll miss this war-time game, 
 
 The sound of the guns that thunder. 
 The open life an' the men I knew, 
 An* even the hardships we went through! 
 
 Just now I'm wishin' to settle down 
 
 In my quiet job in a little town 
 
 Where there ain't a fret an' there ain't a thrill 
 
 An* nothin' happens, an* never will; 
 
 But still, 
 
 I wonder; 
 After a while, when the country store. 
 An* the gang that circles the stove's a bore 
 
 I hardly can bear up under. 
 Maybe I'll yawn an' stretch an' gaze 
 Wistful, into the distant haze. 
 
 Oh, from too much war I may seek release 
 But how will it be when there's too much peace? 
 I'm yearnin' hard for the home folks, now, 
 [102] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 WONDERMENT (continued) 
 
 For the bed that's soft an* the country chow. 
 
 But how, 
 
 I wonder. 
 Will it be with me who've rode in ships 
 Where the U-boats lurk an' the deck-gun rips 
 
 The salt sea winds asunder? 
 Will home existence seem flat an' stale. 
 An' me a prisoner, locked in jail? 
 
 When you've lived an' battled an' wandered far 
 
 Home is a sort of a beacon star, 
 
 It leads you back, an' of course you go. 
 
 But a guy gets restless, I've come to know; 
 
 An' so 
 
 I wonder 
 If maybe the home things will not pall 
 An* I be hearin' the great world call, 
 
 Call in a voice like thunder; 
 An*, like a prisoner, breakin' pen, 
 Co boundin' out on the trail again 1 
 
 [loaT 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LESSON 
 
 PRIVATE DOWLIE, careless and flip, 
 Sloven in uniform, loose of lip; 
 
 Captain spoke to him, "Dowlie, you 
 Happen to be just one of few 
 
 Native Americans I have got; 
 
 The rest are rather, well — polyglot; 
 
 Brave and loyal and strong enough 
 But not exactly good non-com stuff. 
 
 I need your kind, but I cannot rate 
 
 A man who's careless, who won't keep straight, 
 
 Who's always shooting a bunch of chin 
 And isn't subject to discipline. 
 
 You ought to learn, for your mind's astute; 
 That it isn't officers you salute 
 
 But the imiform, and it should occur 
 To man like you are, that saying "Sir" 
 
 Is nothing cringing, but just a part 
 Of being soldierly, trim and smart. 
 [104I 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LESSON (continued) 
 
 Private Dowlie considered a bit 
 
 And then with ready and Yankee wit 
 
 Answered, "There's sense, 'Sir,' in what you say," 
 Saluted smartly, and turned away. 
 
 A few weeks after, with seven men, 
 
 The Captain stood at a cross roads, when 
 
 The night was coming. A German shell 
 Landed close and each soldier fell 
 
 Flat on the ground. When the smoke had cleared 
 The Captain, wobbly, half-stunned, upreared, 
 
 And started calling his men by name; 
 "Martin," "Kratzi." The answer came 
 
 "Safe, Sir." "Schaefer," "Tobenkin," "Black." 
 "Safe and sound. Sir," the word came back. 
 
 But the other names brought no reply 
 
 And the Captain sought where the men might lie. 
 
 He groped through the dimness, till he found 
 One figure, lifeless, upon the ground, 
 
 Another one near it barely stirred; 
 The Captain called, and in answer heard, 
 
 "Corporal Dowlie, Sir." "Are you hurt?" 
 "I think I'll die, Sir," but from the dirt 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE LESSON (continued) 
 
 He rose a bit, and though darkness made 
 His figure seem like a moving shade, 
 
 He summoned his strength with a pain acute 
 And brought his hand to a smart salute 
 
 Then crumpled up, and the captain cried, 
 For "Corporal Dowlie, Sir," had died, 
 
 Died the way that a soldier should 
 
 For the lesson he learned was learned— for good I 
 
 UoS] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE QUESTION 
 
 CAME here to fight — an* we did 
 Came here to win — an' we won; 
 Put Mr. Boche on the grid, 
 
 Basted him till he was done; 
 We'd have stayed ten years — a score — 
 
 If the job lasted that long 
 But there's no war any more 
 So we're all singin' this song: 
 
 Oh men, say when, 
 
 When do we start for home? 
 
 When will our ship 
 
 Begin her trip 
 Over the ocean foam? 
 
 Any one know 
 
 When we will go. 
 Go on the trail for home? 
 
 Barrack an* Billet an* line 
 
 All of us thinkin' alike, 
 "Got any news, any sign 
 
 Showin* we're goin' to hike — 
 Hike for the ship sailin' back? 
 
 That's what we're longin' to learn. 
 When'll they tell us to pack? 
 
 When do we start to return? 
 [107] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE QUESTION (continued) 
 
 Oh men, say when. 
 
 When do we leave for Home? 
 
 The war is fought 
 
 An' now this thought 
 Is in each soldier's dome, 
 
 Any one hear 
 
 When we will clear — 
 Clear out of France for Home? 
 
 Now that there's no one to fight 
 
 We just hang round an' repeat, 
 "Gosh, to be sittin' tonight 
 
 Home, with real dishes to eat; 
 Home — that's the smoke, not a tear — 
 
 Still, a man's fancies will roam 
 Home to the folks, far from here — 
 
 When do they start us for Home? 
 
 Oh men, say when 
 
 When do we beat it Home? 
 
 Oh Gosh, to see Miss Liberty 
 A shinin' through the gloam. 
 
 Say, who has heard the latest word? 
 When do we start for Home? 
 
 [1081 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE TWO CROSSES 
 
 THE White Cross of Calvary, it leads the world in 
 war 
 To gain the true and perfect love that Jesus suffered 
 
 for. 
 Ahead of our battalions it glows with wondrous light 
 That marks the path of victory we follow in the fight ; 
 The white cross of Calvary is shrined in every heart, 
 But the red cross of mercy — it plays an equal part. 
 And in the hell of pounding guns its magic shall not 
 
 cease. 
 The White Cross, the Red Cross shall bring us 
 
 through to peace. 
 
 The White Cross of Calvary shall shed a glory great 
 On those who fight for faith and right against the 
 
 hordes of hate, 
 But the Red Cross of mercy, it is the badge they wear 
 Who seek and save the broken ones amid the battle 
 
 glare, 
 The sign of that great service corps which fights no 
 
 foe but pain 
 And strives for human salvage in the waste of war's 
 
 red reign. 
 And brave hearts and faint hearts may know the 
 
 beauty of 
 The White Cross of Calvary, the Red Cross of love. 
 
 [109] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE TWO CROSSES (continued) 
 The White Cross of Calvary whereon was crucified 
 The Savior of Humanity, a spear mark in his side, 
 Shall be our blessed guerdon, but there's the Cross 
 
 of Red 
 (Aye, tinged with blood compassionate our Lord and 
 
 Master shed) 
 And it shall lift the fallen and bear them back again 
 And with a strange new wizardry rebuild them into 
 
 men. 
 In all the roar of conflict above the crimson sod 
 The White Cross and Red Cross shall do the work of 
 
 God! 
 
 [iio] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BIG ADVANCE 
 
 /^ LIGHT your pipe up, Buddy, 
 ^^ And fasten on your pack; 
 The footing may be muddy 
 
 Along our forward track, 
 But we should worry when we see 
 
 What we are going for; 
 We're marchin' into Germany, 
 
 We've won the blooming war. 
 
 There are no shells to meet us 
 
 And our own guns are dumb; 
 No m. g. nests will greet us 
 
 With bullets as we come ; 
 Our hobnails rasp, our belts all creak, 
 
 We slog past plain and hill; 
 No H. E.'s "crump," no "two tens" shriek, 
 
 God, but the air is still. 
 
 Say, this is difl'rent, Buddy, 
 
 Than just a while ago 
 When "forward" meant a bloody 
 
 And damned unhealthy show. 
 With Boches round the scenery 
 
 By squad, division, corps; 
 But now, we're off to Germany, 
 
 We've won the blooming war. 
 rm] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE BIG ADVANCE (continued) 
 
 And those we've left behind us 
 
 Upon the fields of France 
 Perhaps they'll somehow find us 
 
 And march in our advance. 
 The Grand Commander up above 
 
 If what we're taught is true 
 Will help them see the glory of 
 
 The thing they helped to do. 
 
 We've marched in wartime, Buddy, 
 
 In dark and cold and damp, 
 But now our fires are ruddy 
 
 Wherever we encamp; 
 This the time we've fought to see 
 
 The thing we came here for, 
 We're off, we're off to Germany, 
 
 We've won the blooming war. 
 
 [II2] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 SPECULATION 
 
 WHEN the war is over an' we can sail 
 With our lights a-shinin' free. 
 An' we needn't watch fer a U-boat's trail 
 
 Slinkin' under the sea; 
 When we kin steam at an easy lope 
 
 An' the decks are clear of guns 
 With never a sign of a periscope 
 Along o' the track we runs; 
 
 I'm thinkin' at first we'll find it great 
 
 With never a convoy near, 
 To plod along on a course that's straight 
 
 With nary a sub to fear, 
 Yet, after playin' this war-time game 
 
 Of submarine peek-a-boo, 
 I'm wonderin' won't we find it tame 
 
 With nothin' like that to do? 
 
 Yes, after drawin' our every breath 
 
 In the perils that we has known, 
 An' playin' at hide an' seek with death 
 
 In the thick of the danger zone, 
 Where a Hun torpedo may start to race 
 
 A-streakin' it for our hull — 
 Well, after havin' them things to face. 
 
 Won't peace seem a leetle dull? 
 [ii3l 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 SPECULATION (continued) 
 
 Oh, I'll be glad when it comes, all right, 
 
 An' there isn't no need to ride. 
 With the gunner's mate at the five-inch sight 
 
 An' the boats swung overside. 
 But I'm thinkin' now, as a feller will, 
 
 That when days of peace come back, 
 We'll be missin* some of the old-time thrill 
 
 That we knew on the U-boat track! 
 
 r«i4i 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 PRIDE 
 
 THE nearest I got to the front in France 
 Was bakin' the army bread at Tours, 
 With a baker's apron over my pants. 
 
 Say, I was a hero soldier, sure. 
 I done a year in the S.O.S. 
 
 An' men from the front they held the view. 
 That I was a kind of a louse; I guess 
 That I was inclined to think so, too ! 
 
 Over in France I was just a worm 
 
 To the boys who came from the blazin' line, 
 I used to feel that I oughta squirm 
 
 Outa their sight to some hole of mine; 
 But now, I'm Home, an' my sleeve is bright 
 
 With two gold stripes, an' they sure look gay 
 Compared to the silver ones, all right. 
 
 Of guys who never left U. S. A. 
 
 Say, when you've been for a year or so 
 
 Where all you get is the glassy eye. 
 It sure is bully, believe me, bo. 
 
 To have it over some other guy; 
 My chest swells up, an' my shoulders square. 
 
 Whenever these silver-stripers pass 
 For the service chevrons from Over There 
 
 Are Class; here, Buddy, you get me— Class I 
 
 [lis] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 WHEN we come rolling home again across the 
 ocean foam again 
 Away from muddy trenches and the noise and smell 
 of war, 
 Without that job to weary us we won't be stem and 
 serious 
 And nob!e-looking heroes like some folks are plan- 
 ning for ; 
 We're mostly young and vigorous and after labors 
 rigorous 
 We'll sure be good and ready for a frolic or a 
 dance. 
 We've learned from war, no doubt of it, but when 
 we're safely out of it 
 At heart we'll be about the same as when we sailed 
 for France! 
 
 We've led a life adventurous and only glooms will 
 censure us 
 If, back from facing hate and death through weary 
 days and nights 
 Where heavy shells were battering amid a strain 
 nerve-shattering, 
 We're hungry for the glamor of the laughter and 
 the lights. 
 You think that we've been taught a lot? Well, it is 
 true we've thought a lot, 
 [ii6] 
 
BUDDY BALLADS 
 
 THE RETURN (continued) 
 
 But not so much of sterner things, we've had 
 enough of those; 
 We've dreamed of sweethearts beautiful and mothers 
 dear and dutiful, 
 But pondered most on home-made pies, good din- 
 ners, baths and shows ! 
 
 When we come rolling home again to tread our native 
 loam again 
 We won't be greatly different from when we went 
 away. 
 You'll find some little change in us, but nothing very 
 strange in us; 
 We'll still be joyous spendthrifts who are strong 
 for fun and play. 
 But by the pals who're lost to us and war's tremen- 
 dous cost to us. 
 By all we've seen and all we've known and all the 
 work we've wrought. 
 When we come gaily back again upon the homeward 
 track again 
 God help the men who are not true to all for which 
 we fought! 
 
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