UGOUTS AND DREAMS 
 
 LT. FRANK C.TILLSON
 
 Dugouts and Dreams
 
 Dugouts and Dreams 
 
 By 
 LT. FRANK C. TILLSON 
 
 i3ist INFANTRY, A. E. F. 
 
 PHELPS AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 14 W. Chestnut St., Chicago, 111.
 
 Copyright 1920 
 
 Phelps and Company 
 
 Chicago
 
 9KLF 
 
 URL 
 
 ZDebicatton 
 
 TO RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 To the Singer of the Real Songs, the Magician of 
 
 the Pen, 
 Who sings the Joys and Sorrows, the Loves and 
 
 Lives of Men, 
 
 I dedicate this little book, with gratitude, today, 
 For the hours I've spent a-dreaming "on the road 
 
 to Mandalay." 
 "Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the 
 
 twain shall meet," 
 But here's a token from the West. I lay it at your 
 
 feet, 
 Just a little book of verses, but 'tis all I have to 
 
 bring; 
 It is all that I can offer, the songs I've tried to sing.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dedication To Rudyard Kipling 7 
 
 The End of the Trail 13 
 
 Wreckage 15 
 
 Playmates 16 
 
 The Stretcher Bearers 17 
 
 The Mourning Women 19 
 
 Lights 20 
 
 Veterans 21 
 
 On Guard 23 
 
 Peggy 25 
 
 The Rainbow 27 
 
 Dud 29 
 
 A Message to You 31 
 
 Horrors of War . 32 
 
 The Sleeping Village 35 
 
 Mina 37 
 
 The "Dandy First" 39 
 
 The Worlds 41 
 
 Sweet Peas 45 
 
 To a Cavalry Horse 47 
 
 Going Over 49 
 
 Suzanne 51 
 
 Good for Something 53
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Rubaiyat of an Ambulance Man 55 
 
 Patsey 58 
 
 The Song of the Bayonet 59 
 
 The Song of the Sergeant 61 
 
 To Dorothy 63 
 
 When Omar Was a "Candidate" 65 
 
 The Stanley Man 67 
 
 The Last Assignment 68 
 
 Reveille 69 
 
 Sketches 72 
 
 Amelia 74 
 
 Discharged 75 
 
 Retreat 77 
 
 Homesick 78 
 
 Pioneers 80 
 
 On Clark Street 82 
 
 The Misfits 84 
 
 The "Holy" War 86 
 
 Mumps 88 
 
 Dreams 90 
 
 Weather and Work 92 
 
 The Welcome 94 
 
 Ambition 96 
 
 Pal o'Mine 98 
 
 The Cowboy's Lament 100 
 
 The Parting of the Ways 101 
 
 Grace 102 
 
 Coin' Away 103 
 
 10
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 An Awful Poem 105 
 
 Coming Home 107 
 
 The God of Conventionality 108 
 
 Politics no 
 
 My Pipe and I in 
 
 The Whisperin' Lady 112 
 
 Economy 113 
 
 To the Goddess Nicotine 114 
 
 The Song of the "Bo". 116 
 
 North Dakota 119 
 
 The Slaves of the Commonplace 121 
 
 The Jesters 123 
 
 Afterword 125 
 
 ii
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL 
 
 I am dreaming alone by the campfire, 
 While the glowing embers pale, 
 
 Of a little white cross in the Argonne 
 At the end of a long, long trail. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We knew the trail was long and rough ; 
 
 We knew where it might lead ; 
 Yet, when they called for fighting men 
 
 In that grim hour of need, 
 Jim sort o' grinned and looked at me, 
 
 And I grinned back and so 
 We just shook hands and hit the trail 
 
 That beckoned us to go. 
 
 We'd followed lots of trails before, 
 
 From Argentine to Nome ; 
 For we were born with nervous feet ; 
 
 The wide world was our home. 
 And we were pals for we had shared 
 
 The hunger, want, and woe 
 Of all the trails, in all the lands, 
 
 That lured us to and fro.
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL 
 
 We used to sit beside the fire, 
 
 When daily drills were through ; 
 Then Jim, he'd light a cigarette 
 
 And plan on what we'd do, 
 And where we'd go, and what we'd see, 
 
 When this big scrap is done 
 That little cross in the Argonne 
 
 Shows where old Jim has gone. 
 
 Somehow, it's awful lonesome here, 
 
 And no one seems to care, 
 And nothing seems to count for much, 
 
 Since Jim went over there. 
 There's just one thing I'm living for, 
 
 To make those Boches pay ; 
 And the trail looks long and dreary, 
 
 For Jim, he's gone away. 
 ****** 
 
 There's a little white cross in the Argonne, 
 At the end of a long, long trail ; 
 
 And there's me, alone by the campfire, 
 While the glowing embers pale.
 
 WRECKAGE 
 
 Out from the ocean of War, 
 Cast up to rot on the shore : 
 
 No more to follow the star, 
 Luring us on as before. 
 
 Desolate wreckage of War, 
 Bodies all shattered with pain, 
 
 Hulks, that shall nevermore sail 
 Long for the ocean again. 
 
 Only in dreams shall we know 
 Red, flaming joy of the strife. 
 
 Wrecked in the midst of it all. 
 Nothing is left us but Life.
 
 PLAYMATES 
 
 Sort o' miss my playmate, 
 Honest, child, I do. 
 
 Sort o' longing for the day 
 I'll come back to you. 
 
 Heard the bugles calling, 
 Gaily marched away. 
 
 Wonder do you miss me 
 When you want to play ? 
 
 Sitting here and smoking, 
 Lonely like and blue 
 
 Wishing, little playmate, 
 I were back with you. 
 
 16
 
 THE STRETCHER BEARERS 
 
 While they're passin' round these Croix de Guerres 
 
 an' D. S. C.'s an' such, 
 
 There's a guy I'd like to recommend he isn't men 
 tioned much. 
 His job is nothin' fancy, an' he doesn't get much 
 
 fame. 
 He is just a stretcher bearer, but, believe me, Bo, 
 
 he's game. 
 (Who am I? Why, just a doughboy. Perhaps you 
 
 know my rep. 
 An' I used to kid the Pill Brigade fer gittin' out of 
 
 step, 
 But since we've had this war of ours, I've seen what 
 
 they can do, 
 And perhaps this little story may explain my change 
 
 of view.) 
 
 ****** 
 
 I was lyin' there one mornin' with my nose jammed 
 
 in the dirt, 
 While the bullets all around me, made the tiny dust 
 
 clouds spurt; 
 
 Just a-wishin' I was thinner, an' longin' to be home. 
 Or any place away from there, from Mexico to 
 
 Nome.
 
 THE STRETCHER BEARERS 
 
 My pal was lyin' wounded, up a hundred yards 
 
 ahead, 
 An' I knew we couldn't reach him, so I gave him up 
 
 for dead. 
 Then two stretcher bearers started, an' I figgered 
 
 they was gone, 
 But they never hesitated just went on, and on, 
 
 and on. 
 They just sort o' hunched their shoulders, like it 
 
 was a shower of rain, 
 An' they went out to my buddy an' they brought 
 
 him back again. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It's not so hard to face the Boche, an' let him shoot 
 
 at you, 
 When you've got an automatic, an' can do some 
 
 shootin' too, 
 But those two boys went marchin' out, without a 
 
 single chance, 
 Except to push up daisies in some sunny field in 
 
 France. 
 They saw their job an' did it, without any fuss or 
 
 talk, 
 Just as calmly and serenely as you'd start out for 
 
 a walk. 
 Believe me, that takes courage, an' I'll hand it to 
 
 them, then, 
 You may call them non-combatants, but they are 
 
 soldiers and they're Men. 
 
 18
 
 THE MOURNING WOMEN 
 
 Fields of poppies blazing scarlet in the wheat, 
 Winding roadways made for wandering lovers' feet, 
 Close cropped hedges in between poplars, prim and 
 
 straight, 
 And all the mourning women gazing through the 
 
 gate. 
 
 Mild eyed cattle grazing, knee deep in the grass, 
 Crowds of children watching as the soldiers pass 
 France has given gladly of the best she yields. 
 See the mourning women, working in the fields. 
 
 Half a nation clad in black, that a world be free, 
 Did their share, and now the task falls to you and 
 
 me; 
 
 Soldiers of a younger land, proud, we are, and glad, 
 To fight for mourning women who gave the best 
 
 they had. 
 
 Once our fathers called them quick they came to 
 
 aid. 
 
 Now we come in millions, that the debt be paid. 
 Facing ever forward, our far flung lines advance, 
 For the mourning women, emblems now, of France. 
 
 19
 
 LIGHTS 
 
 The lights ashore are growing plain, 
 The tiny lights that led us home, 
 
 Those lonely, loving, little lights, 
 Along the roads we used to roam. 
 
 Yet we will miss those other lights, 
 
 Which we have learned to love and know, 
 
 The ruddy glow of Sibley stoves, 
 
 And the open fires in the gleaming snow. 
 
 The star shells lighting No Man's Land, 
 The searchlight's beam across the sky, 
 
 The many colored rockets' flare, 
 
 Where men creep out to kill and die. 
 
 The candle in the dugout's gloom, 
 
 Your cigarette, a tiny spark, 
 That fades and glows so friendly like, 
 
 Across the trench in the sullen dark. 
 
 The lights of home gleam tenderly 
 Those other lights, in vain, must call : 
 
 Yet, here in our peaceful, ordered lives, 
 God knows, we will miss them all. 
 
 20
 
 VETERANS 
 
 Gosh! 
 
 Can you imagine 
 
 ME 
 
 A veteran? 
 
 I ain't got 
 
 No wooden legs, 
 
 Nor white whiskers, 
 
 Nor nothin'. 
 
 Ever since 
 
 I was big enough 
 
 So Maw could take me 
 
 To see the parade 
 
 On Decoration Day, 
 
 I've heard 'em talk 
 
 Of veterans, 
 
 An' now 
 
 I'm one. 
 
 Somehow 
 
 I always sort o' thought 
 
 They was born 
 
 Thataway,
 
 VETERANS 
 
 But now, 
 
 I realize 
 
 That other war 
 
 Was fought by boys, 
 
 Same as this one 
 
 An' they prob'ly was 
 
 Just as blue, 
 
 An' homesick, 
 
 An' scared 
 
 As I was. 
 
 But, say! 
 
 Can you imagine 
 
 ME 
 
 Being a veteran 
 
 Of anything? 
 
 22
 
 ON GUARD 
 
 As I walk my post in the stillness, 
 
 And the stars are gleaming through, 
 Then the whispering boughs of the pine trees, 
 
 They are singing, dear heart, of you. 
 'Tis the wind that blows from the Northland, 
 
 From the snowclad peak and plain, 
 That is telling the pines the story, 
 
 And they tell it to me again. 
 
 It may be that I am but dreaming, 
 
 But I would that dreams came true ; 
 For the pines sing of lovelight gleaming, 
 
 Deep down in the eyes of you; 
 And they whisper that you are longing 
 
 For the man who marched away, 
 And who watches now in the darkness 
 
 For the dawn of another day. 
 
 Then they murmur soft, you are waiting 
 For a day which is sure to come, 
 
 When a world that is purged of evil 
 Shall no longer hear the drum
 
 ON GUARD 
 
 Or the tramp of the warring nations, 
 As their sons march forth to fight, 
 
 For the things their fathers taught them, 
 And their dreams of wrong made right. 
 
 Now the eastern sky grows brighter, 
 
 With the flush of dawning day, 
 And the bugles wake the sleeping camp, 
 
 But they drive my dreams away. 
 Then I whisper low to the pine trees 
 
 Of all that I long to do ; 
 And I wonder if pines in the homeland 
 
 Will be telling my dreams to you.
 
 PEGGY 
 
 She's a tantalizin' divil, wid a sparkle in her eye, 
 An* a smile that sets me heart a-thumpin' fast ; 
 An' I tell you on the livil, that no matter how I try, 
 
 Shure, I can't forget the time I saw her last. 
 For I tried wan day to make mesilf believe I didn't 
 
 care, 
 But I knew that I was lyin', an' mesilf, he knew 
 
 it, too, 
 Though I know she has no heart at all, 'tis bitter 
 
 hard to bear, 
 An' I wish I didn't love her but I do. 
 
 She's a dainty little fairy, wid a foot so light an' 
 
 small, 
 Ye would niver think it big enough to crush the 
 
 heart av me, 
 But she wint her way a-smilin' an' she niver cared 
 
 at all 
 
 That she left an aching hollow, where me heart it 
 used to be. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Shure, there's no more joy in workin', an' there's 
 no more fun in play,
 
 PEGGY 
 
 An' the world is dark an' dreary, though the skies 
 
 are bright an' blue, 
 But I've got me dreams and memories she can't 
 
 take those away, 
 An' I wish I didn't love her but I do.
 
 THE RAINBOW 
 
 A dismal, drizzling rain, 
 Spread like a mantle of woe, 
 Over the hill and the plain, 
 Over the river below. 
 Dimly we see through the mist, 
 Walls we have failed to destroy, 
 Desolate, deadly, and dark, 
 The village of Consenvoye. 
 
 Sudden, the sun, breaking through, 
 
 Paints a great, glimmering arch, 
 
 Orange, and crimson, and blue, 
 
 Over the path where we march. 
 
 White clouds of shrapnel above, 
 
 The order comes up to deploy, 
 
 And the grim line goes to the rainbow's end 
 
 In the village of Consenvoye. 
 
 Swift, on its mission of death, 
 Down through the rainbow's sheen, 
 Comes a shell which was meant for me, 
 
 27 .
 
 THE RAINBOW 
 
 But my buddy steps between 
 Faithful, and tender, and true, 
 Giving his life for a friend 
 And so he waits for the final call, 
 There at the rainbow's end. 
 
 The emblem of eternal hope, 
 Prophet of peace and joy 
 But my buddy died at the rainbow's end, 
 In the village of Consenvoye.
 
 DUD 
 
 I have heard men tell of the sweetest words that 
 
 human voice can speak, 
 Of the tender words of the mother tongue, be it 
 
 Choctaw, French, or Greek. 
 Oh, it must be great, in the pale moonlight, to hear 
 
 her murmur, "Yes." 
 And the words like "mother, home, and friend" 
 
 mean more than we confess. 
 All these words are sweet, but away out here, where 
 
 the cannon crash and roar, 
 i have learned a word that is sweeter, far, than any 
 
 I've heard before. 
 
 Were you ever out on a lonely plain, when the moon 
 
 was awful clear, 
 And you looked around for a hole to duck, but never 
 
 a hole was near, 
 While the German shells went whizzing by, and 
 
 closer, and closer, drew, 
 As you wondered which of them was stamped with 
 
 the number meant for you, 
 Till at last one hit at your very feet, and plastered 
 
 you with mud ; 
 Then you know the relief that a word can bring, 
 
 when someone whispers "Dud." 
 
 29
 
 DUD 
 
 Did you ever sit in a tiny trench, where you knew 
 you had to stick, 
 
 In a Christian Science dugout, with a roof six inches 
 thick, 
 
 Not a thing to do, but just sit, and cuss, and light a 
 cigarette, 
 
 While the "Whiz-Bangs" banged, and the big "Five- 
 Nines" tore up the parapet? 
 
 Then you surely know how sweet it sounds, when 
 you've heard a big one thud, 
 
 And you've held your breath for a million years, 
 just to hear that whisper "Dud." 
 
 I suppose when the war is finished, when the victory 
 
 is won, 
 When the hard tack all is eaten, and the bully beef is 
 
 gone, 
 When my last true friend has been bored to death 
 
 by the tales that I unload, 
 Of the wondrous way that my life was saved, when 
 
 that shell did not explode, 
 And I tell the world for the umpteenth time, how I 
 
 waded through seas of blood, 
 Then, some guy will murmur in accents mild, "Too 
 
 bad it was a Dud."
 
 A MESSAGE TO YOU 
 
 There's a purple haze a-drifting where the sky and 
 
 and grey hills meet, 
 
 Somewhere in France. 
 There are crimson poppies blazing in the cool green 
 
 of the wheat, 
 Where the speckled trout are leaping in the tiny 
 
 crystal streams, 
 And the long, white road is winding where the 
 
 golden sunlight gleams; 
 It is there that I'll be meeting you, along the Road 
 
 of Dreams, 
 
 Somewhere in France. 
 
 There's a lonely land that's lying, out there beyond 
 the wire, 
 
 Somewhere in France. 
 
 And there's little time for dreaming, when the order 
 comes to fire, 
 
 Somewhere in France. 
 
 Where the star shells' glare lights the waiting line, 
 And the lone patrol hears the bullets whine 
 There's a heart that is loving you, sweetheart of 
 mine, 
 
 Somewhere in France. 
 
 31
 
 HORRORS OF WAR 
 
 I used to think 
 
 That, if I finished this war 
 
 With a full assortment 
 
 Of arms and legs, 
 
 There wouldn't be a thing 
 
 To worry me, 
 
 But now 
 
 I know 
 
 Better. 
 
 This is the awful thought 
 That sends the cold chills 
 Chasing up and down 
 My spine, 
 Like a cootie 
 Taking his morning 
 Promenade. 
 
 Some day 
 
 Long after this little scrap 
 
 Has been forgotten, 
 
 32
 
 HORRORS OF WAR 
 
 Say, 
 
 Six months 
 
 From now, 
 
 I'm apt to go 
 
 To some Swell Joint 
 
 For a Regular 
 
 Feed 
 
 You know the kind 
 
 I mean, 
 
 Where all the men 
 
 Wear open face 
 
 Blouses, 
 
 And white shirts, 
 
 And no leggings 
 
 And the women, 
 
 Oh, Boy!! 
 
 About the time 
 
 The highbrow 
 
 K. P. 
 
 Is bringing in 
 
 Seconds 
 
 On the Slum, 
 
 I'm gonna 
 
 Forget 
 
 And cuss 
 
 Out loud, 
 
 Or mention 
 
 Cooties, 
 
 Or something. 
 
 33
 
 HORRORS OF WAR 
 
 And then 
 
 There will be 
 
 An awful 
 
 Silence, 
 
 While I 
 
 Just ooze away 
 
 To look for a shell hole 
 
 Or a drink 
 
 And, pretty soon, 
 
 Some dignified 
 
 Old Dowager 
 
 Will lift up her 
 
 Double-barreled 
 
 Monocle 
 
 And whisper, 
 
 "Undoubtedly 
 
 He has a good heart, 
 
 A most worthy man, 
 
 And a stout fighter, 
 
 But, 
 
 My Dear, 
 
 He is Socially 
 
 Impossible." 
 
 34
 
 THE SLEEPING VILLAGE 
 
 The tiny village of Pierregot 
 Dreams of the days of long ago, 
 Of the gallant knight and his winsome bride 
 Who drank the wine of the countryside 
 At the open door of the estaminet, 
 Mounted their horses and rode away 
 Down the shady road. Then armored men 
 Went to the wars and returned again. 
 Prince and pauper passed to and fro, 
 Through the pleasant village of Pierregot. 
 
 The winding streets resound again 
 
 To the cadenced tread of marching men, 
 
 And at the pool where the cross roads meet, 
 
 The women tell of the great defeat. 
 
 Now, strange men talk in a language new, 
 
 As they pause to rest while passing through. 
 
 No pennons flutter their colors gay, 
 
 As the brown clad ranks swing on their way 
 
 With singing hearts, to meet the foe, 
 
 Across the hills from Pierregot. 
 
 35
 
 THE SLEEPING VILLAGE 
 
 Seven kilos from Pierregot, 
 Is wrath and ruin, want and woe, 
 Where other towns of ancient France 
 Woke from their dreams of dead romance 
 To hear the screams of wounded men. 
 Woke to be crushed to earth again. 
 While, over fields of ripening grain, 
 Slowly there spreads a crimson stain. 
 
 The pleasant village of Pierregot 
 
 Smiles in its dreams and does not know.
 
 MINA 
 
 Whin the Lord looked down from Hivin, at our 
 
 toilin', grievin' earth, 
 Thin his heart was filled wid pity for our lack av 
 
 joy an' mirth ; 
 So He called His angels to Him, an' He sez to thim, 
 
 sez He, 
 "We will sind thim down a sample av the joys that 
 
 are to be." 
 
 Thin He sint his angels far an' wide, an' told thim 
 where to meet, 
 
 Wid the various ingredients to make his task com 
 plete. 
 
 So they brought a dancing sunbeam, an' a fleecy 
 summer cloud, 
 
 An' a bit av bottled echo, where a fairy laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 Wan brought a ray av moonlight, an' wan an artist's 
 
 dream, 
 An' wan the lilting lyric av a sparkling mountain 
 
 stream. 
 Another found a frosty morn, an' stole the sparkle 
 
 from the air ; 
 The Lord, He smiled, an' wid these things, He made 
 
 a maiden fair. 
 
 37
 
 MINA 
 
 Two little, shining, baby stars, they begged to be 
 
 her eyes; 
 The color for her cheeks an' lips, He took from 
 
 sunset skies. 
 The angels thought the work was done, but sud- 
 
 dinly he sint 
 A messenger to Satan for a spice av divilmint. 
 
 He looked an' saw His work was good, an' sez wid 
 
 accents glib, 
 " 'Tis a great improvement on the job I did wid 
 
 Adam's rib." 
 So He placed her in this sad old world to bring us 
 
 joy an' bliss; 
 (An' I'm tellin' you, she did that same. That's why 
 
 I'm writin' this.) 
 
 L'Envoi 
 
 Whin the Lord looked down from Hivin at our 
 
 toilin', grievin' earth, 
 And His heart was filled wid pity for our lack av 
 
 joy an' mirth; 
 And He sint this joyous maiden, ah, He lost wan 
 
 man, I fear, 
 I'm not carin' much for Hivin, the whiles that 
 
 Mina's here.
 
 THE DANDY FIRST 
 
 It seems at least a million years, since last the bugles 
 
 blew, 
 And the "Dandy First" in dress parade, marched 
 
 down the Avenue, 
 With Colonel Joe in front of us, as proud as any 
 
 king, 
 While the cheering from the sidewalks made the 
 
 joyous echoes ring. 
 
 The band was playing "Illinois" and led the gay ad 
 vance 
 Today we do our marching over half the roads of 
 
 France. 
 It's a long way to the homeland, and a long time, too, 
 
 before 
 The "Dandy First" comes swinging down the 
 
 Avenue once more. 
 
 There is no music playing as we plod on through 
 
 the rain, 
 For the band, as stretcher bearers, help to carry in 
 
 the slain. 
 We've been tried with bombs and bullets we've 
 
 been tried with gas and shell, 
 
 39
 
 THE DANDY FIRST 
 
 But the Little Colonel's still in front we'd follow 
 
 him through Hell. 
 We're not so pretty as we were a bath would be a 
 
 treat, 
 But we are still the "Dandy First," who never knew 
 
 defeat. 
 The boys you knew are soldiers now all honor to 
 
 them, then, 
 When the "Dandy First" comes marching down the 
 
 Avenue again. 
 
 There will be some faces missing, when along our 
 
 ranks you glance, 
 Oh, the little wooden crosses in the shell-scarred 
 
 fields of France 
 Where our boys have paid the blood price paid it 
 
 gladly, full and fair, 
 And, in paying, taught the German that the "Dandy 
 
 First" was there. 
 When you cheer us on returning don't forget the 
 
 men who paid, 
 For they knew the cost and faced the end, as 
 
 soldiers, unafraid. 
 Oh, the cheering and the weeping Oh, the mingled 
 
 joy and pain, 
 When the "Dandy First" comes marching down the 
 
 Avenue again. 
 
 40
 
 THE WORLDS 
 
 This is but one 
 Of many worlds, 
 And this I know 
 In three short years, 
 That I have lived 
 In several. 
 
 First- 
 There was a world 
 Of mountain heights 
 And plains, of valleys fair, 
 All green and gold ; 
 Of work and play 
 And trout that leaped 
 From crystal streams. 
 It was a pleasant world, 
 But small. 
 
 Next- 
 There came a world 
 Of college life, 
 Fraternities, 
 Of books and girls,
 
 THE WORLDS 
 
 And fellowship 
 
 With careless Youth; 
 
 A world where petty things 
 
 Loomed large and yet 
 
 It also was 
 
 A pleasant world. 
 
 Then- 
 There was a third, 
 A sterner world, 
 A world of men, 
 And drills, and work 
 That tried their souls; 
 Of weary days, 
 And lonely nights ; 
 Of dumb obedience 
 We knew not why 
 And still there were 
 Great moments 
 Which repaid our toil 
 In full. 
 
 And, all the while, 
 We knew that soon 
 We must pass on. 
 
 And then 
 
 We crossed the sea, 
 
 Unto another world, 
 
 42
 
 THE WORLDS 
 
 A place of ruined homes, 
 
 And shattered men 
 
 Who smiled 
 
 At Life and Death; 
 
 A world of pain, 
 
 And dirt, 
 
 And crawling things ; 
 
 Of gas that choked, 
 
 And shells that tore 
 
 The tender flesh ; 
 
 When no man dared 
 
 To dream 
 
 Of what was past, 
 
 Or plan 
 
 One day ahead ; 
 
 And yet, this was 
 
 A joyous world, 
 
 Not only with 
 
 The flaming joy 
 
 Of Battle but 
 
 The pleasure found 
 
 In fellowship with men 
 
 From every land. 
 
 We met and passed 
 
 And each one knew, 
 
 That come what might, 
 
 His life, at least, 
 
 Was justified. 
 
 43
 
 THE WORLDS 
 
 Now 
 
 We dwell in still 
 
 Another world, 
 
 Of villages that sleep 
 
 In quiet woods; 
 
 Of looking back 
 
 To worlds where once 
 
 We lived. 
 
 While all beyond 
 
 Is veiled in mist. 
 
 This is but one 
 Of many worlds, 
 And always, we 
 Must gaze ahead, 
 And wonder what 
 The next may be. 
 
 44
 
 SWEET PEAS 
 
 There's a sort o' fairy fragrance comes a-floating 
 
 on the breeze, 
 And I seem to hear a whisper, like the murmur of 
 
 the trees, 
 When the zephyrs from the mountains set them 
 
 sighing soft and low, 
 
 In that valley 'neath the Rockies, in the land where 
 sweet-peas grow. 
 
 Sweet-pea blooms and Memory 
 Of the dreams I dreamed in vain, 
 But the scent of sweet-pea blossoms, 
 Oh, it brings my dreams again. 
 
 I can see it there, all green and gold, with peaks of 
 
 amethyst, 
 And the silver ribbons here and there, where rivers 
 
 turn and twist 
 Through that valley, where the sunshine drives away 
 
 all care and gloom, 
 In the golden light, all pink and white, I see the 
 
 sweet-peas bloom. 
 
 45
 
 SWEET PEAS 
 
 When that perfume fills the air, 
 Then my dream, so real it seems, 
 That I see once more the valley 
 That I call my Land o' Dreams. 
 
 In this Land o' Dreams, a maiden fair is waiting 
 
 now for me, 
 And I long to go where sweet-peas grow. 'Tis there 
 
 that I would be, 
 In the Land o' Dreams, in Sweet-Pea Land, the 
 
 Land of Days That Were, 
 
 For the scent of sweet-pea blossoms, it is calling me 
 to her. 
 
 Sweet-Pea Girl, I'm coming back, 
 For I dreamed that you might care, 
 And the scent of sweet-pea blossoms 
 Seemed the fragrance of your hair. 
 
 46
 
 TO A CAVALRY HORSE 
 
 Old friend of the ranges, they've caught you at last, 
 
 And forced you to drill in a line ; 
 "Fours right. Column left," till the long day has 
 passed, 
 
 And I know how you feel, pal o' mine. 
 How you long for the wide, empty spaces. 
 
 They are calling to you as to me, 
 And the wind from the homeland breathes soft in 
 our faces, 
 
 As it whispers, "Come back and be free." 
 
 Yet we can't go back we must go on, 
 
 To the range across the sea ; 
 For the Big Boss says there's a job for us 
 
 In the cause of Liberty. 
 They are needing us, old Pinto Horse, 
 
 There is work for us over there, 
 And we may come back, but if we don't, 
 
 There's no one much to care. 
 
 There must be some place up in Heaven, 
 
 Where the angels don't go very much, 
 
 47
 
 TO A CAVALRY HORSE 
 
 Where there's room for a couple of rivers, 
 
 And some mountains, and pine trees, and 
 such. 
 
 By the brand on your hip, they will know you. 
 The brand on my heart is as plain. 
 
 Then, together, we'll go to the homeland, 
 
 And the smell of the sagebrush again.
 
 GOING OVER 
 
 Three days ago 
 
 We strolled down Broadway, 
 
 And all the maidens smiled, for we 
 
 Were all dolled up in leather putts 
 
 And everything; 
 
 And when we left 
 
 The waiters and the taxi men 
 
 Shed bitter tears. 
 
 But now 
 
 We are afloat aboard a censored ship 
 
 Upon a censored sea, 
 
 And all this junk I'm writing here 
 
 W r ill likely meet the same sad fate 
 
 And die of seasickness. 
 
 As Goldstein says, 
 
 "Full many a gem of purest ray, serene, 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear, 
 
 Which, dodging shark and submarine, 
 
 Is laid to rest in the Censor's lair." 
 
 But, just the same, 
 
 I feel that it will be 
 
 A great relief 
 
 To write it down. 
 
 49
 
 GOING OVER 
 
 Speaking of "dark, un fathomed caves" 
 
 My home address, at present, 
 
 Is Number Three upon the sixty-seventh floor 
 
 Beginning from the top. 
 
 In fact I am so far below 
 
 The surface, that I have to stand 
 
 Upon my toes 
 
 To reach 
 
 The bottom. 
 
 My bunk is in the second layer, and 
 
 To use a poker term, 
 
 "The ceiling is the limit." 
 
 Thank Gawd, I'm thin! 
 
 Old Pullman would take off his hat, 
 
 And Mr. What's His Name, who cans sardines, 
 
 Would gaze in silent awe, 
 
 Could they but see 
 
 My home, sweet home. 
 
 Thank Gawd, again, 
 I didn't join the navy.
 
 SUZANNE 
 
 In the Land of Luxembourgers, 
 Dwells a maiden, fair to look on ; 
 Answers to a name most wondrous, 
 Name that sets my heart a-flutter, 
 
 Suzanne, 
 
 Suzanne of the Cows. 
 Eyes with tender light, soft gleaming, 
 Even as the cows she tendeth, 
 Manicures, and leads to water. 
 Figure like a German Venus, 
 As she leans upon her pitchfork, 
 So in all my dreams she cometh, 
 Stealing softly, like a vision, 
 Smiles upon me in the darkness, 
 Showing teeth that would make joyous 
 Kolynos, the God of Dentists, 
 Smiles once more and straightway goeth 
 Forth into the Ewigkeit. 
 
 Du, geliebte, schonste, Madchen, 
 Tell me, must you immer arbeit ? 
 Can you never stop to listen 
 To my songs, oh, Bocheland fairy,
 
 SUZANNE 
 
 Songs of love, of love and longing 
 
 For your smiles, mein lieber Fraulein ? 
 
 Long have I been searching for you 
 
 In the land across the water. 
 
 Now the Gods have led me to you, 
 
 Nevermore can I forget you. 
 
 Ever must I stop and listen, 
 
 As the East Wind whispers softly 
 
 In my ear, that name entrancing, 
 
 Suzanne, 
 Suzanne of the Cows.
 
 GOOD FOR SOMETHING 
 
 I was always a shiftless sort of cuss, 
 I was good for nothing and didn't care ; 
 Just a rolling stone and shy on moss, 
 But I'm good for something "over there." 
 
 If you could have seen me a week ago, 
 
 You would never have dreamed that, back at home, 
 
 There's a white haired mother thinks little Joe 
 
 Is headed sure for the White house dome. 
 
 She's just as sure I'll be president, 
 
 Or a judge, or some such shining light 
 
 As she used to be, before I went 
 
 And beat it from home that summer night. 
 
 I beat it away 'cause the town was slow 
 And I wanted to see what life could give. 
 Well, I've seen enough and I'd like to go 
 Back to her side, where I used to live. 
 But I got in wrong and I wrote her lies 
 Sure, it can't be a sin to bring her joy, 
 But, at last, I can look in her dear eyes, 
 And she'll still be proud of me, her boy. 
 
 53
 
 GOOD FOR SOMETHING 
 
 I hadn't shaved for a week or two, 
 And I hadn't bathed since God knows when ; 
 Just a-rambling by when the bugles blew 
 And I heard them asking for fighting men. 
 "Fight" was always my middle name, 
 So I talked to the Sergeant and here I am, 
 And for once in my life, I can play the game. 
 "You're good for something," says Uncle Sam. 
 
 I'm a poet punk and the meter's wrong, 
 
 As you surely know, if you've heard me through, 
 
 But I had to sing you this little song, 
 
 And please don't ask why I picked on you. 
 
 For I'll tell the world that it's great to hear 
 
 That I'm good for something now, somewhere, 
 
 Though I never could live for it over here, 
 
 I can die for my country "over there." 
 
 54
 
 The City Lights, they beckon, shining clear, 
 And whisper, "Love and Laughter wait you Here, 
 When all the Jass Bands play upon the Shore, 
 Why dwells my former Slave upon the Pier?" 
 
 I answer then, "Oh, Mistress of my Heart, 
 My Love shall last till Death doth part, 
 And I am true, but Uncle Sam hath said 
 That all his boys need sleep so have a Heart." 
 
 I would not Fate, nor Sergeants, wise, condemn, 
 Nor e'en complain of Rules proclaimed by them, 
 But, Shade of Caesar, tell me why I should 
 Be forced to hit the Hay at Ten P. M. 
 
 Behold, I have a Maiden, passing fair, 
 My Love for Her, by All the Gods, I swear, 
 Then grab my Lid at Nine o'clock, 
 Ah, Cruel Fate, and leave Her lonely there. 
 
 55
 
 RUBAIYAT OF AN AMBULANCE MAN 
 
 Torn from her side, I'm hurried Where? 
 And from that spot, perchance, to Over There. 
 Ah, many a drop of Blood from Kaiser Bill 
 Shall drown the Memory of my Despair. 
 
 Of Right and Left Oblique and Right Front Into 
 
 Line, 
 
 I know no word, but why should I repine, 
 When one Command of "As you Were" 
 Will cover all and that I have down fine? 
 
 Thou should'st prepare for Future Life, some say, 
 And look for thy Reward on that far better Day, 
 But, ah, methinks that Two-Bits, cash in hand, 
 Is greater far, than all my Next Month's Pay. 
 
 Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears 
 Today of Past Regrets and Future Fears, 
 And pass it on to some more lucky man, 
 Because, these days, I'm drinking Tea, my dears. 
 
 Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before, I swore, 
 But was I sober when I swore ? 
 But now, I'm off the Stuff for Life, 
 If I should die before this war is o'er. 
 
 5*5
 
 RUBAIYAT OF AN AMBULANCE MAN 
 
 Yon silver Moon that shines on Street and Plain, 
 How oft hereafter shall She wax and wane, 
 And see my Love with Someone Else, 
 But look, amid the Throng, for me, in vain. 
 
 And when like her, Oh, Saki, with thy joys, 
 Thou shalt pass round mid Mirth and Noise, 
 Just turn an Empty Glass where once I sat 
 And say, "He's in the Army, boys."
 
 PATSEY 
 
 There's a sweet colleen, I long to see, 
 
 Tis Patsey. 
 And in all me dreams, she smiles at me, 
 
 Does Patsey. 
 
 Ah, whin I was young and free from care, 
 Me heart on me sleeve, I used to wear, 
 But she stole it away, the maiden fair, 
 
 Called "Patsey." 
 
 Yis, she stole it away in broad daylight, 
 
 Did Patsey. 
 But she only took what belonged by right 
 
 To Patsey. 
 
 Shure she's welcome to it, if it will bring 
 A smile to her face. 'Tis a worthless thing, 
 But 'twas all I had, so today I sing 
 
 Of Patsey. 
 
 This world was all sunshine whin she was near, 
 
 Fair Patsey, 
 But now 'tis all cloudy and dark, and drear, 
 
 My Patsey. 
 
 For whin she smiles all the world is glad, 
 And whin she frowns, then me heart is sad, 
 But smiles or frowns, still wid love I'm mad, 
 
 For Patsey. 
 
 58
 
 THE SONG OF THE BAYONET 
 
 This is the song of the bayonet, 
 That he sings to his chosen ones, 
 Who know not fear it soundeth clear, 
 Mid clamour of the guns. 
 
 "The father of my father was a spear, 
 
 Wherewith the knights, in days of long ago, 
 
 Were wont to sally forth without a fear, 
 
 To wrest a captive maiden from the foe. 
 
 For me, no tasks romantic, I wear no ribbands 
 
 bright. 
 
 My ancestors would scarce acknowledge me. 
 'Tis mine to fight through the long, long night, 
 For the dawn of Liberty." 
 
 Over the top, with hearts aflame, 
 And eyes with hate aglow, 
 Singing the song of the bayonet, 
 Which he, who lives, must know. 
 
 "Oh, I am keen, and strong, and bright, 
 And I know no thought of fear, 
 When you creep in No Man's Land at night, 
 And you feel the foe is near ; 
 
 59
 
 THE SONG OF THE BAYONET 
 
 When you struggle there in the silent dark, 
 With never an eye to see, 
 And the noiseless steel has reached its mark, 
 Then, mine let the triumph be." 
 
 It is kill or die, when you rush the foe, 
 And life is very sweet, 
 Then this is the song of the bayonet, 
 To the tune of the pounding feet. 
 
 "I was not made for the weary wait, 
 
 Where the searching bullets hum, 
 
 But mine is the moment, wondrous, great, 
 
 When the word to charge has come. 
 
 Oh, the butt is good, and the bullet's good, 
 
 Yet I lead all the rest, 
 
 When the day of Great Adventure dawns, 
 
 And death seems but a jest." 
 
 The Hun, he hates the cold, cold steel. 
 The cold steel hates the Huns. 
 So, hark to the song of the bayonet, 
 That he sings to his chosen ones. 
 
 60
 
 THE SONG OF THE SERGEANT 
 
 I'm not a gorgeous General, 
 Nor yet a gold cord Loot, 
 For all I get is stripes to wear, 
 To decorate my suit. 
 
 You will never read about me in the papers ; 
 
 And they'll never pin a medal onto me, 
 But I'll do my damndest just the same, 
 
 For the "land of the brave and the free." 
 Though the non-com is the backbone of the Army, 
 
 Someone else will grab the glory and the fame. 
 For the worry and fret is all that we get. 
 
 Our reward is the joy of the Game. 
 
 Did I hear you say this life is "so romantic" ? 
 
 I thought it was myself, before the day, 
 When I slung a blanket roll upon my shoulder, 
 
 And to be a "hero, bold," I marched away. 
 So I'll do my bit in Uncle Samuel's army. 
 
 As a soldier, I must never, never shirk, 
 But forget about the romance and the courage, 
 
 For this army life is simply, damn hard work. 
 
 61
 
 THE SONG OF THE SERGEANT 
 
 1 know that I will never be a hero, 
 
 And lead my dashing soldiers to the fray, 
 But, somehow, I don't care, for I know that over 
 there, 
 
 There will be some little part for me to play. 
 No, you'll never see my picture in the papers, 
 
 And I'll never hear the cheering of the mob, 
 For I'm just the guy who does the work that's 
 needed. 
 
 Give me credit it's a man-sized job. 
 
 62
 
 TO DOROTHY 
 
 Ye may sing of the light of the cold, pale moon, 
 Or the light of the sunset skies, 
 
 But I'm happy, quite, 
 
 When I see the light 
 That shines in Milady's eyes. 
 
 Ye may sing of the brown of the Autum leaves, 
 But I sing of Milady's hair, 
 
 For 'tis gold and brown, 
 
 And a fitting crown, 
 For the head of Milady fair. 
 
 Ye may sing of the pink of rosebuds fair, 
 Or the white of the snow-capped peaks, 
 
 But the rosebud's glow, 
 
 Nor the soft, white snow 
 Can compare with Milady's cheeks. 
 
 Ye may sing of the red of the ruby, bright, 
 Or the rose where the wild bee sips ; 
 
 They are fair. Ah, yes, 
 
 But what happiness 
 Might be found on Milady's lips. 
 
 63
 
 TO DOROTHY 
 
 L'Envoi 
 
 Ye may sing of the joys of our younger days, 
 Of the days when our hearts were free, 
 
 But I'll still forsake 
 
 All these joys and take, 
 Just my dreams of Dorothy. 
 
 64
 
 WHEN OMAR WAS A "CANDIDATE" 
 
 Men strive and toil to reach some high Domain, 
 And, when arrived, wish they were once again 
 
 Where they have been. Tonight, I know 
 
 That I have done my Damndest but in Vain. 
 
 My Songs of Wine and Women, long ago 
 
 Were sung, before this time of Woe, 
 When all the Day, from Reveille to Taps, 
 
 I cannot sing for Toil is all I know. 
 
 When Taps is blown why Waking stay, 
 And in your mind revive the Trials of Day. 
 
 Sleep while you may and sleeping dream 
 
 Of Pleasant Things for Dawn brings Reveille. 
 
 Then should the Gods inquire what Boon 
 
 Would cause my Muse to sing its sweetest Tune, 
 
 I'd answer them, "Ah, let me slay 
 
 That Bugler Guy and sleep till Noon. 
 
 That Golden Hat Cord, gleaming bright, 
 Was, but a foolish Vision in the Night, 
 
 65
 
 WHEN OMAR WAS A "CANDIDATE" 
 
 And I shall wake to find a week's K. P. 
 
 Awaiting me, when Morning brings the Light. 
 
 What matters it that I shall never be a "Loot," 
 Whom Privates, yea, and Sergeants too, salute ; 
 
 When humble Toil brings Happiness, 
 
 And Board, and Clothes, and Thirty Per, to boot ? 
 
 66
 
 THE STANLEY MAN 
 
 He is dressed in a suit of khaki, 
 
 And he packs a gun with the rest, 
 For that bit of white is the only sign 
 
 That he's one of the Army's best. 
 
 He is one of those who stuck it out, 
 
 He has done what few men can ; 
 He has gone on his nerve when his strength gave out, 
 
 He's a soldier and a Man. 
 
 He will cross the top with the same old dash, 
 Face the foe with the same old smile ; 
 
 And he'll fight like Hell to the bitter end, 
 For that is the Stanley style. 
 
 No, you don't salute when you meet him yet, 
 
 For he's only a private still ; 
 But that bit of white he worked to win, 
 
 Is to show you that soon you will. 
 
 67
 
 THE LAST ASSIGNMENT 
 
 If I should "go West" tomorrow, 
 
 Till I came to the golden gate, 
 Where soldier and slacker, Buck and Loot, 
 
 Alike must stand and wait 
 To report to the Great Commander, 
 
 Of all they have done below, 
 And wait for the last assignment, 
 
 Till Gabriel's bugles blow. 
 
 Then I'll stand up straight at attention, 
 And salute in the Stanley style 
 
 "Sir, I report for duty." 
 
 Then He'll say with a weary smile, 
 
 "You have spent three months at Stanley, 
 I know that bunch too well, 
 
 You would not feel at home in Heaven." 
 
 "Hey, Pete ! Pass one to Hell." 
 
 68
 
 REVEILLE 
 
 "I can't get 'em up I can't get 'em up, 
 I can't get 'em up in the morning." 
 
 That's the sound we hear, when daylight is near, 
 And we have to roll out in the dawning. 
 
 Then we curse a soldiers life as we grab for belt and 
 
 knife, 
 
 And we wonder why we ever went to fight. 
 As we try to lace our shoes with our fingers nearly 
 
 froze, ' 
 Then we know what Sherman said was surely 
 
 right. 
 We don't feel like soldiers, bold, as we crawl out in 
 
 the cold ; 
 
 Still you hear us swear, but never hear us whine. 
 When you hear the Seargeants yell, you may know 
 
 we're getting well 
 A request for speed when falling into line. 
 
 As we think of home, sweet home, and we swear 
 
 we'll never roam, 
 From the safe and cozy place we left behind ; 
 
 69
 
 REVEILLE 
 
 Then of tub baths, hot, we dream and of houses 
 
 warmed by steam, 
 And the girl who, when we left well, never 
 
 mind. 
 When this war for peace is o'er, we'll go back to her 
 
 once more, 
 
 And we'll hope our sons will never have to go, 
 But should then, the bugles call, we'll be ready, one 
 
 and all, 
 To protect our Flag and Country from the foe. 
 
 Still, we know that we shall long for that bugles' 
 
 morning song, 
 When we've settled down to play that peaceful 
 
 game; 
 And, somehow, life will be, different far, for you 
 
 and me, 
 
 Just because the bugles called us and we came. 
 And I hope that I shall hear, when the end is drawing 
 
 near, 
 
 And old Gabriel blows his trumpet in the dawn 
 ing, 
 just that same old bugle call, that we love far more 
 
 than all, 
 
 Though we hate to hear it sounding in the morn 
 ing. 
 
 70
 
 REVEILLE 
 
 "I can't get 'em up I can't get 'em up." 
 Can't you hear that bugle call? 
 
 "I can't get 'em up I can't get 'em up, 
 I can't get 'em up at all."
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 Pup Tents 
 
 Sing a song of pup-tents 
 Pitched amid the trees 
 If your head is covered, 
 Then your feet will 
 
 freeze. 
 Roll and touch the tent 
 
 pole 
 
 Set her up again. 
 Wonder what will hap 
 pen, 
 If it starts to rain. 
 
 Two of you stuck in 
 
 'em- 
 Room for only one ; 
 Have to take turns 
 
 breathing. 
 
 That's the way it's done. 
 Boulder jabs you in the 
 
 ribs 
 
 Lie and cuss your fate, 
 Much too tired to dig it 
 
 out 
 Ain't the Army 
 
 GREAT? 
 
 Monkey Drill 
 
 I love constant drilling. 
 
 I love hikes each day. 
 
 I love rising early 
 
 To the tune the bugles 
 play, 
 
 But I want to tell you 
 
 What I love the most. 
 
 Give me broncho-bust 
 ing 
 
 And I'll give up the 
 ghost. 
 
 Lawdy, how I love it ! 
 
 Lawdy, hear my plea. 
 
 Send an bucking, jump 
 ing, 
 
 Broncho, here to me. 
 
 Send one smooth and 
 rounded. 
 
 Oh, hear me, I implore: 
 
 For, Lawdy, I am telling 
 you, 
 
 That I am SORE.
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 Pay Day 
 
 I work for my Uncle, one dollar per day. 
 I do my own washing, no board bills to pay. 
 For life in the Army, I've this much to say 
 My Gawd, how the money rolls in. 
 
 The Squad 
 
 Comrades mine, will 
 
 you remember, 
 In the days which are to 
 
 come, 
 How we lived and 
 
 worked together, 
 As we heard the warlike 
 
 drum? 
 Who can tell what years 
 
 may bring us? 
 Come what may 'tis all 
 
 worth while, 
 For the eight of us, 
 
 united, 
 Face the future with a 
 
 smile. 
 
 Night 
 
 From the tents the lights 
 
 are gleaming, 
 And you seem so far 
 
 away 
 Then the notes of Taps 
 
 come sighing 
 Slowly ends the soldiers' 
 
 day. 
 One by one, the tents are 
 
 darkened. 
 Silence falls, as drops 
 
 the dew. 
 Leaving all the world to 
 
 darkness ; 
 Leaving me to dreams 
 
 of you. 
 
 73
 
 AMELIA 
 
 Is it because your heart is young? 
 Is it the blarney on your tongue ? 
 
 Why do I long for you ? 
 Why do I dream of your rosebud lips, 
 Sweet as the flower where the wild bee sips ? 
 Why is my heart at your finger tips ? 
 
 Girl o' mine, tell me true. 
 
 Is it the witching wiles of you? 
 
 Is it the warmth in the smiles of you ? 
 
 Why am I loving you ? 
 
 Oh, the silvery moon wrought a wondrous spell, 
 And deep in my heart has come to dwell 
 A happy dream, that I dare not tell. 
 
 Dear little dream come true. 
 
 74
 
 DISCHARGED 
 
 I am sick o' the life in the army. 
 
 I am tired of the bugle's call. 
 
 I am weary o' drillin' an' hikin'. 
 
 Thank the Lord, I am through with it all. 
 
 I have done my bit o' strafing with the Fritzies, 
 
 I have had the Allied cooties strafing me. 
 I have seen a lot o' places, met a lot o' foreign races, 
 
 But, at last, the job is over and I'm free. 
 So I'll buy a suit o' civvies an' they won't be olive 
 drab, 
 
 And I'll chuck my old tin derby from the train : 
 Then I'll take my sixty dollars and I'll buy some 
 linen collars, 
 
 And be dressed up like a white man once again. 
 
 Then I'm going to sling my feet beneath the table, 
 Where there's napkins and a tablecloth of white, 
 
 For I know my mother's pickin' out the largest, fat 
 test chicken 
 For her soldier boy that's comin' home tonight. 
 
 75
 
 DISCHARGED 
 
 I can hear the old town callin' an' I'm goin' back 
 
 "toot sweet," 
 
 To the little girl who's waitin' there for me. 
 Then I'll never be regrettin' all the Mam'selles I'm 
 
 forgettin', 
 For the army life is "fini" and I'm free. 
 
 Gee, but it's great to forget it ; 
 
 The mud, and the blood, and the strife ; 
 
 I went and I'll never regret it, 
 
 But I'm through with the army for life.
 
 RETREAT 
 
 Camp Stanley April 19. 
 
 Inspection Arms. Port Arms. Dismissed. 
 
 Good-bye good luck to you. 
 We've worked together three long months, 
 
 But now this work is through ; 
 And over there, across the sea, 
 
 The waiting bugles call 
 To sterner tasks for you and me. 
 
 Our country needs us all. 
 
 We may not meet again, old pal, 
 
 Let's part then, with a smile ; 
 This Game of War is not for babes 
 
 At that it's all worth while. 
 Thank God, I've lived and worked with Men, 
 
 And made a friend or two. 
 Inspection Arms. Port Arms. Dismissed. 
 
 Good-bye good luck to you. 
 
 77
 
 HOMESICK 
 
 I kin light my pipe an' see it, jest as plain as plain 
 
 kin be, 
 In the smoke, that green-gold valley stretchin' out 
 
 before my eye, 
 
 An' the wavy silver ribbon of the river, runnin' free, 
 An* that big, old, blue-black mountain, that's humped 
 
 up agin the sky. 
 
 Homesick? Yes, I'm homesick. I'm sick o' the 
 
 crowded town, 
 An' the busy throngs of people, stampedin' up an' 
 
 down. 
 They pass you, never smilin', each intent on his own 
 
 ends; 
 They are busy makin' money ; got no time f er makin' 
 
 friends. 
 
 I'm sick o' the look on their faces. I'm sick o' the 
 
 rush an' noise, 
 An' I'd swap my soul f er a friendly look or the sound 
 
 of a friendly voice. 
 
 78
 
 HOMESICK 
 
 Good, old Kipling wrote about it. Seems he made 
 it mighty plain, 
 
 "Youth was cheap ; wherefore we sold it. 
 
 Gold was good ; we hoped to hold it, 
 
 And today, we know the fullness of our gain." 
 
 Those few words have set me thinkin', an' I'm 
 
 tellin' you it's true. 
 There ain't no guess about it. He was writin' what 
 
 he knew, 
 An' I'm learnin' now their meanin' see it clearer 
 
 every day, 
 So I'll hit the trail tomorrow, an' I'm goin' back to 
 
 stay. 
 
 Sometimes wonder why I left them, all the folks I 
 
 used to know ; 
 Home and friends that really like you, those are 
 
 things a man can't buy ; 
 'Course I thought I'd make my fortune then, but 
 
 now I'm glad to go 
 Where that big, old, blue-black mountain is humped 
 
 up agin the sky. 
 
 79
 
 THE PIONEERS 
 
 They are grey, and bent, and weary, 
 With the weight of passing years. 
 Well we know the debt we owe them, 
 To our Sires the Pioneers. 
 
 For they came through unknown perils, 
 
 Out across the trackless plain, 
 
 Where today we ride in comfort, 
 Through the fields of golden grain. 
 
 Climbing mountains, fording rivers, 
 
 Always looking far ahead, 
 
 So that we, who follow after, 
 
 Might be warmed, and clothed, and fed. 
 
 And they broke the first long furrows, 
 
 Sowed their grain, and watched it grow, 
 
 Patient as their toiling oxen. 
 
 Can we pay the debt we owe? 
 
 Then came sickness, death, and sorrow, 
 
 Still they faced it, all alone, 
 
 So that we, who follow after, 
 
 We might reap where they have sown. 
 
 80
 
 THE PIONEERS 
 
 Who can tell what voice was calling? 
 
 Who can tell what visions fair, 
 
 Lured them onward till they found it, 
 
 Found a land beyond compare ? 
 
 Found and conquered for their children, 
 
 This was what they died to do. 
 So that we, who follow after, 
 We might watch their dreams come true. 
 
 Year by year, their ranks grow thinner, 
 
 One by one, our nation's pride 
 
 Seek another, fairer country, 
 
 On across the Great Divide. 
 
 Never shall their memory perish. 
 
 We, their sons, will guard their fame. 
 God grant, we, who follow after, 
 May be worthy of their name. 
 
 81
 
 ON CLARK STREET 
 
 Alone, I walked the crowded city streets, 
 One tiny atom, mid the countless throng 
 Of men and women, hurrying past, 
 In search of pleasure, gold, or power, 
 And all the myriad things which serve 
 To make this life a joy but none had time 
 To cast a cheery glance, or smile, 
 Or speak a kindly word. 
 
 Alone, I walked 
 Till suddenly there came a breath 
 Of fragrance, like a vagrant wind 
 From my own land and I could smell 
 The pine and sagebrush and could see 
 Those white-capped peaks and, at their feet, 
 That quiet valley I call "home" ; 
 And all the little, sparkling, mountain streams 
 That rush o'er rocks and fallen trees, 
 And stop to rest in deep brown pools, 
 Where speckled trout are leaping for the fly. 
 
 The fragrance passed 
 And once again, I saw the walls of brick 
 That hemmed me in, and smelled the smoke 
 And odors of the street. 
 
 82
 
 ON CLARK STREET 
 
 Then, turning round 
 To see from whence the perfume came, 
 I saw a girl, not one of those who live 
 Protected from the world, but one whose fate 
 Has been to fight the stern realities of life 
 And lose. She still was young, and yet, 
 Her painted lips, and cheeks, and glances, bold, 
 Proclaimed her ancient calling. 
 
 She smiled and went her way, 
 And never knew the scent she wore had been 
 The magic, which conveyed me back, 
 O'er many weary miles and wearier years, and gave 
 A moment of forgetfulness. 
 
 O, little Painted Lady of the Streets, 
 You made me dream again.
 
 THE MISFITS 
 
 Aye. We are the failures, the misfits. 
 
 We have worked, and dreamed, and tried, 
 But we were not made from the stronger clay 
 Of those men who build from day to day 
 On their past mistakes. We can only pray, 
 
 And drift with the ebbing tide. 
 
 No. Not the unfit the misfits, 
 
 The men who are out of place, 
 
 The artist-souls in the marts of trade, 
 
 All discontent, but still afraid 
 
 To leave the paths their Fathers made, 
 And a scornful world to face. 
 
 True. We are but failures, mere dreamers, 
 
 But what if our dreams came true ? 
 Could the poet over his ledgers bent, 
 Stifling his soul with cent per cent, 
 Could he but sing the feelings pent 
 
 The things that he wished to do? 
 The leader, who if the Gods were kind, 
 Might sway the world by his power of mind, 
 Is wasting his days at the endless grind 
 For the sake of the favored few. 
 
 84
 
 THE MISFITS 
 
 We know at the end of the journey, 
 
 At the hour of the setting sun, 
 That we shall be classed with the coward slave, 
 Who buried the talents his Master gave, 
 For we are mere weaklings, but were we brave, 
 Ah, God ! What we might have done.
 
 THE "HOLY" WAR 
 
 August, 1914 
 
 "And now," says the Kaiser from his balcony to 
 the people in the streets, "I commend you to God; 
 go to your church and kneel before God and pray 
 for our gallant army." 
 
 "We, Nicholas II, by God's grace Emperor and 
 Autocrat of all the Russians," the Czar responds. 
 
 "With God's help," echoes Francis Joseph. 
 
 Yea. This is a great and holy war. 
 
 Our Kings have told us so. 
 With blare of trumpet and flash of steel, 
 And white above, where the man-birds wheel 
 On wings of Death, while the wounded reel, 
 
 And call to the God they know. 
 
 Our Kings have said 'tis a holy war. 
 And why should we not believe ? 
 We pray to God for the strength to kill 
 Our Fellow-men. 'Tis our Masters' will; 
 
 86
 
 THE "HOLY" WAR 
 
 We question not, but their wish fulfill. 
 For, why should our Kings deceive ? 
 
 The women pray in the village church. 
 
 Our Kings have so decreed. 
 Though Kings and Kingdoms may wax and 
 
 wane, 
 
 Can victory soothe the mother's pain, 
 Who weeps today, for her man-child slain? 
 
 What prayers can meet her need? 
 
 When souls of peasant, and prince, and slave 
 Shall come once more to the God who gave 
 Them life and power, and they shall meet, 
 As man to man, at the Judgment seat, 
 
 Where sits our God on high, 
 Whom will He blame for this "holy" war, 
 The peasant soldier, or King and Czar, 
 
 Who sent them forth to die.
 
 MUMPS 
 
 What makes a fellow want to swear ? What makes 
 
 his heart to break? 
 It's not appendicitis nor yet the stomach ache. 
 
 It's the mumps just the mumps. 
 
 That's the thing that makes a fellow have the 
 jumps. 
 
 It's not the blooming pain 
 
 That makes us all complain, 
 But 
 
 It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
 mumps. 
 
 Spasm Two 
 
 A double chin's not in it. In fact it don't compare. 
 
 You've chin enough for three or four and then a bit 
 to spare. 
 
 For the mumps just the mumps, 
 Are enough to put a fellow in the dumps, 
 And then the way it goes 
 And grows, and grows, and grows. 
 
 Joy! 
 
 It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
 mumps.
 
 MUMPS 
 
 Final Agony 
 
 And then, the lack of sympathy that's in the human 
 
 race. 
 They laugh at all your suffering and call you 
 
 "Funny-Face." 
 
 Oh, the mumps, blooming mumps ; 
 
 When I've got 'em is the time my spirit slumps, 
 
 And I moan and groan and curse, 
 
 But it only makes 'em worse. 
 Damn! 
 
 It's the everlasting swelling of the everlasting 
 mumps.
 
 DREAMS 
 
 Do dreams always go by contraries, me dear? 
 
 Tell me, do they never come true? 
 Wid me cigarette gleaming, 
 I can spend the hours dreaming, 
 
 While a voice seems to whisper of you. 
 
 "Frank, me boy, your life you're wasting. 
 Tis yoursilf, that should be hastening, 
 Back to where the vagrant breezes make the solemn 
 
 pine trees moan. 
 
 Come away from shows and parties, 
 Go you back there, where your heart is, 
 Where the yellow moon is rising o'er the quiet 
 Yellowstone." 
 
 "Shure, you can, you must remember, 
 'Twas an evening in September, 
 When you stood and watched together, just the girl 
 
 and you alone, 
 
 After all the world was sleeping, 
 And the stars alone were peeping, 
 As you dreamed there in the moonlight, out along 
 the Yellowstone." 
 
 90
 
 DREAMS 
 
 "Ah, her smile was so entrancing, 
 That it set your heart a-dancing, 
 Though you were afraid to tell her, yet of course 
 
 she must have known ; 
 And perhaps, sometimes she's thinking 
 Of the boy, whose heart is sinking, 
 Like the moon that's waiting for you, out beside 
 the Yellowstone. 
 
 Do dreams always go by contraries, me dear ? 
 Tell me, do they never come true? 
 
 Shure, if dreams are deceiving, 
 
 Tis mesilf that's believing, 
 That I'll have to quit dreaming of you. 
 
 91
 
 WEATHER AND WORK 
 
 Our hired man, he sez, sez he, 
 "The change the weather makes in me 
 Is somethin' wonderful to see." 
 
 "Fer instance now, the winter's cold, 
 
 It makes me feel I'm gittin' old, 
 
 An' somehow, I kain't take a-hold 
 
 An' work. By Gosh! sez he, 
 
 "Ez sure ez my name is Ezry Perk, 
 
 I never was no hand to shirk, 
 
 But when it's cold, the thought of work, 
 
 It don't appeal to me." 
 
 "An' when the sun is blazin' down, 
 A-shinin' on the patch o' groun' 
 Whar I am sort o' diggin' roun', 
 You know," sez Ezry Perk, 
 "I git to listenin' to the bees 
 A-hummin', an' in all the trees 
 The birds are singin' songs of ease, 
 An' then I jest kain't work."
 
 WEATHER AND WORK 
 
 "An' now, when fall has come again, 
 A-bringin' days o' cold and rain, 
 It seems to me, it should be plain 
 Sich days ain't made for work. 
 An' then, you know, sich weather is 
 Most powerful bad fer rheumatiz, 
 An' if I worked out-doors, Gee Whiz! 
 'Twould ruin me," sez Perk. 
 
 "An thar is my philosophy. 
 
 It ain't no use to work, by Gee, 
 
 Unless the weather's right," sez he. 
 
 93
 
 THE WELCOME 
 
 In Montana, where the mountains raise their snow 
 capped peaks on high, 
 O, the blue-black of the pines against the snow 
 
 In Montana, where the prairies run far out to meet 
 
 the sky, 
 
 O, the murmur of the breezes to and fro 
 In the land that God was good to, 
 In our own, the last, best West, 
 We are waiting, while we're working, 
 With a welcome for the rest 
 Of the men, who now are coming, 
 And the others, still to come, 
 Who shall teach their children's children 
 To call Montana "home." 
 
 In the land our fathers left us, in the land our sons 
 
 shall love, 
 
 O, the treasures of the mountain and the plain 
 Midst our wealth of mines and forests, fertile 
 
 valleys, rushing streams, 
 And the gently waving fields of golden grain, 
 
 94
 
 THE WELCOME 
 
 We have wealth, unknown, uncounted, 
 
 Shall we cease our labors then, 
 
 With our land still undeveloped? 
 
 What we need today, is Men. 
 
 Men, we want, not cowards nor weaklings, 
 
 And we offer you a home 
 
 In our West, the land of promise. 
 
 We are waiting for you. Come ! 
 
 95
 
 AMBITION 
 
 Gee, how I wish 'at I was growed 
 
 Up big, just like my Paw, 
 
 I bet I wouldn't waste my time 
 
 A-tellin' folks the law. 
 
 I'd be a P'liceman, big an' grand, 
 
 An' wear a shiny hat, 
 
 An' if a burglar come around, 
 
 I'd show him where he's at. 
 
 Er else I'd be a cowboy, brave, 
 
 Away out in the West. 
 
 Of all the broncho-busters there, 
 
 I'd be the very best. 
 
 I'd shoot the wolves an' Injuns too, 
 
 An' scalp 'em on the head, 
 
 An' cut a notch on my pistol stock, 
 
 Fer every one 'at's dead. 
 
 I'd like to be a robber man, 
 An' help 'em rob a train, 
 Er captain of a battleship, 
 An' lick them folks from Spain. 
 
 96
 
 AMBITION 
 
 Er I might be a pirate, bold, 
 An' make folks walk the plank, 
 An' laff aloud with awful glee, 
 Wen they hit, ker-plunk, an' sank. 
 
 My Paw is just the smartest man, 
 
 But I can't understand, 
 
 Why he should be a lawyer, w'en 
 
 He might play in the band ; 
 
 But you just wait till I get big. 
 
 I'll show 'em all a few, 
 
 Fer w'en a boy is clear growed up, 
 
 There's lot of things to do. 
 
 r 97
 
 PAL O' MINE 
 
 As I sit, and smoke, and ponder, 
 Smiling gently through the haze 
 From my pipe, my thoughts will wonder 
 Back to you and high-school days. 
 
 Pal o' mine, do you remember, 
 Sometimes, when the lights are low, 
 All the things we planned and talked of 
 In the days of long ago? 
 All those rosy colored visions 
 That we dreamed, just me and you, 
 Things that time would surely bring us 
 Wonder why they can't come true. 
 
 Fame and riches, joy and gladness, 
 All the Future held in store, 
 They were ours. No thought of sadness 
 Touched our dreams in days of yore. 
 Days ere Life had lost its glamour, 
 Ere we dreamed of duty's chain, 
 Days of youth, of love, of dreaming, 
 Would that I could dream again. 
 
 98
 
 PAL O' MINE 
 
 Let me turn the pages backward, 
 Back to where all dreams were true 
 To C. H. S., our Alma Mater, 
 Back to high-school days and you.
 
 THE COWBOY'S LAMENT 
 
 Thar ain't no West, no more, at all. 
 
 Thar ain't no place to go. 
 My bronk and I are old and tired 
 
 From wanderin' to an' fro, 
 A-lookin' for some place to live 
 
 Whar folks ain't crowded so. 
 They tell me, we are out of date, 
 
 An' I suppose they know. 
 
 Fer, somehow, Progress passed us by. 
 
 I'm glad she did it yet 
 We're relics of those happy days 
 
 It seems I can't forget, 
 When coyotes howled upon the hills; 
 
 My eyes are kind o' wet. 
 The world has moved an' I've stood still, 
 
 I guess I shouldn't fret. 
 
 When I compare those days with these, 
 
 A lump comes in my throat ; 
 To think o' dressin' like a dude! 
 
 It kind o' gets my goat, 
 But I've packed away my spurs an' chaps 
 
 An' bought a long-tail coat. 
 Montana's gettin' civilized, 
 
 Since wimmin got the vote. 
 
 IOO
 
 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 
 
 Is it not strange? 
 
 That two shall come from lands the whole wide 
 
 world apart. 
 And meeting face to face, shall see an image 
 
 clear, 
 
 Their image, each reflected in the other's heart, 
 And, seeing this, the two, without a thought 
 
 of fear, 
 Shall walk a little way together. Then shall 
 
 part 
 
 To meet no more. 
 
 And going each their different ways, midst 
 
 faces, new, 
 And different scenes, each striving to forget 
 
 their love 
 Shall roam alone. Unknowing, yet their whole 
 
 lives through 
 Shall seek each other. Thus the Gods above 
 
 shall prove 
 
 Their power. And we, who at the Fates 
 defiance threw, 
 
 Shall learn too late 
 
 Our error, and shall struggle back, 
 
 But meet no more. 
 
 And this is Fate. 
 101
 
 GRACE 
 
 Shure, she came from North Dakota, this wild rose 
 
 av the West, 
 
 From the land where pretty girls were first invented, 
 An' she's set me heart a-thumpin' an' she's spoilin' 
 
 av me rest. 
 Tis only when I drame av her thot I can slape 
 
 continted. 
 The little birds, they sing av her. The breezes 
 
 whisper "Grace." 
 I wonder if she hears thim too, an' if she thinks 
 
 av me. 
 
 I wonder if she knows the whiles, her dainty rose 
 bud face 
 Is haunting all me waking hours. Me thoughts, 
 
 they wander free. 
 An' flyin' off on vagrant wing, they whisper in her 
 
 ear, 
 Thot their master, an' the slave av her, he waits to 
 
 learn his fate. 
 I wonder, will their answer be the words I long to 
 
 hear 
 From me wild rose, me dream rose, me rose av the 
 
 Wild Rose state. 
 
 1 02
 
 COIN' AWAY 
 
 I'm sick o' the sight o' the prairies 
 
 A-stretchin' out, mile on mile, 
 I'm sick o' the snow an' the blizzards. 
 I'm goin' away awhile. 
 
 I plugged along in the harness fer nigh onto thirty 
 
 year. 
 I had my share o' troubles, an' I had my share o' 
 
 cheer ; 
 Jest kep' on workin' an' workin', the way that a man 
 
 will do. 
 I worked for the kids and missus, but now my work 
 
 is through. 
 
 The kids is grown up an' married, an' got kidlets 
 
 o' their own; 
 The missus, she's lyin yonder, underneath that big, 
 
 white stone 
 Up there along the hillside. I wonder if she's happy 
 
 yet, 
 Or does she kind o' miss us, an' the worry, work, 
 
 an' fret 
 
 103
 
 COIN' AWAY 
 
 O' the years we spent together. Wonder if she 
 
 wouldn't come 
 Back an' do the whole thing over. But her work 
 
 an* mine is done. 
 
 It's hard, this sittin', an' thinkinVan' waitin' here 
 
 all alone 
 For the call to come an' join her. Seems that call 
 
 won't never come, 
 Fer there's no one here that needs me an' I guess 
 
 I've earned a rest, 
 An' I know she's waitin' for me in the Islands o' 
 
 the Blest. 
 
 I'm sick o' the sight o' the prairies, 
 O' the springtime's slush an' mud, 
 
 An' the white-hot glare o' the summers ; 
 I'm goin' away fer good. 
 
 104
 
 AN AWFUL POEM 
 
 You know Mrs. Brown told Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. 
 
 Jones told me 
 That Mrs. Brown's hired girl yes, you know I was 
 
 there to tea, 
 And I said I'd never tell a soul, but she won't mind, 
 
 I guess, 
 And you know, Miss Green, of course it's none 
 
 of my business, 
 
 But ain't it awful? 
 
 And then, that Mr. What's-his-name, that married 
 
 Emma Bird, 
 Course I don't know how true it is, but that's just 
 
 what I heard. 
 And folks are talking scandalous, but his wife don't 
 
 seem to care, 
 
 I never told a soul before. It's none of my affair, 
 But ain't it awful? 
 
 Yes, I heard she dyed her hair and she paints some 
 too, I guess. 
 
 Don't Mrs. Smithson look a fright in that tight- 
 fitting dress? 
 
 105
 
 AN AWFUL POEM 
 
 You'd think that she was old enough and that 
 
 awful looking hat 
 What's that, Miss Green? Well, did you ever? 
 
 What do you think of that? 
 Now, ain't it awful? 
 
 They say he drinks an awful lot, and we thought he 
 
 was so nice, 
 But you can't tell about these men and I saw him 
 
 shaking dice, 
 And that's just as bad as gambling. What's that, 
 
 you don't have to go ? 
 You're going to call on Mrs. Who? Yes, someone 
 
 told me so, 
 
 And ain't it awful ? 
 
 106
 
 COMING HOME 
 
 There's red bandannas wavin' an' a-flutterin' in the 
 
 breeze, 
 An' the shoutin' of the people comes a-ringin' 
 
 through the trees, 
 Like a wind from off the prairies, which is comin' 
 
 just to say 
 An' repeat the stirrin' message, "Teddy comes to 
 
 town, today." 
 
 We've been watchin' fer his comin' out here in the 
 Golden West, 
 
 Fer we know that he is one of us, a man just like the 
 rest 
 
 Of the folks who faced the hardships of the fron 
 tiers, up an' down, 
 
 An' that's why we're all excited when our Teddy 
 comes to town. 
 
 He's runnin' now fer president don't seem it can 
 
 be true, 
 But he's just the same ol' Teddy, older some, like 
 
 me and you 
 He's got that same ol' fightin' jaw, an' happy grin 
 
 an say 
 
 I'm goin' to vote fer Teddy, an' he's comin' home 
 today. 
 
 107
 
 THE GOD OF CONVENTIONALITY 
 
 When first the thought of worship drove our sires 
 to seek a God, 
 
 They, finding nothing fitting, built an idol out of mud, 
 
 And, as some truth was shrined therein, they said 
 their work was good 
 
 And taught their sons to worship calling aloud on 
 Its name; 
 
 E'en made them Priests of Its temple; forgetting 
 whence It came, 
 
 Forgetting they had made It ; they bowed and wor 
 shipped the same. 
 
 When younger Priests approached and saw beneath 
 
 the gold, the clay, 
 They kept the matter quiet for what would their 
 
 Elders say? 
 
 Thus It was handed downward, and so we were 
 
 taught in youth 
 To bow to Gods of Secret Shame for the sake of the 
 
 Lesser Truth, 
 
 1 08
 
 THE GOD OF CONVENTIONALITY 
 
 And the monstrous Thing that our fathers built is 
 
 holy still. In sooth 
 It seems the Devil must sometimes smile, watching 
 
 our sacrifice. 
 We crucify for that man-made God, our honor, our 
 
 very lives, 
 For the sake of our fathers' teaching and fear of 
 
 our neighbors' eyes. 
 
 We know the God is false, and yet, we bow our 
 
 heads and pray, 
 For are we not His Prophets and what would the 
 
 others say ? 
 
 109
 
 POLITICS 
 
 Elijah Brown sez politics 
 Is one thing that won't never mix 
 With business, but he sez, sez he, 
 "I hear my country's call fer me, 
 An' I don't want it ever sed, 
 In days to come when I am dead, 
 That 'Lijah Brown refused to do 
 His duty. From my p'int o' view, 
 It seems to me 
 We need," sez he, 
 
 "Sum men in Congress who are strong 
 An' steadfast foes o' graft an' wrong; 
 Who'll fight the Trusts, both night and day, 
 An' know what's wrong with Schedule K. 
 My friends are beggin' me to run, 
 An' now, this yere campaign's begun 
 My hat is in the ring," sez he. 
 "I'll save the country vote for me." 
 ****** 
 
 He passed seegars around an' we, 
 Each one agreed with 'Lijah B. 
 
 no
 
 MY PIPE AND I 
 
 From the land of the German Kaiser 
 
 Comes this friend I hold tonight, 
 Carved out by some skillful workman 
 
 From the clay, so pure and white. 
 It is only an old, old meerschaum. 
 
 It is old and brown, but sweet, 
 My one true friend, who will stick to the end, 
 
 Though sorrow and pain we meet. 
 
 Far out on the Western prairies 
 
 I have taken this friend of mine. 
 I've smoked it amid the mountains, 
 
 And in forests of spruce and pine. 
 It tells me tales of the joys that were 
 
 And the trials that are to be. 
 Sadness grips my heart as the smoke-clouds part 
 
 And reveal the past to me. 
 
 Faces of girls I used to love, 
 
 And pals that I used to know; 
 Things I thought I had long forgot 
 
 And that happened long ago. 
 Bitter, yet sweet, are the thoughts, tonight, 
 
 That come rushing back to me 
 Of "auld lang syne," for all that is mine, 
 
 Is my pipe and Memory. 
 
 in
 
 THE WHISPERIN' LADY 
 
 The Whisperin' Lady, she whispered to me, 
 
 I can't tell you just what she said, 
 But, somehow, the wur'rld it seems brighter to be 
 And, shure, it seems gladder and fuller av glee. 
 
 Me hear'rt is no longer like lead. 
 'Tis happy as iver a captive can be, 
 Since the Whisperin' Lady whispered to me. 
 
 The Whisperin' Lady is lovely to see. 
 
 Me hear'rt jumps like mad whin she's nigh. 
 No colleen in Ireland is sweeter than she ; 
 It wasn't the wur'rds that she whispered to me. 
 
 I can't tell you just why I sigh. 
 Me hear'rt is a captive, nor longs to be free, 
 Since the Whisperin' Lady whispered to me. 
 
 112
 
 ECONOMY 
 
 Hiram Griggs, he sez, sez he, 
 
 "This town ain't what it orter be. 
 
 Grocery business gettin' slack. 
 
 Dunno why, but that's a fac', 
 
 But," sez he, 
 
 "Economy 
 
 Is my motto." 
 
 Then he went 
 
 Back into the store an' sent 
 
 An order off to Mr. Rears 
 
 An' Sawbuck fer a pair o' shears, 
 
 Five pair o' socks, a Sunday hat, 
 
 A base-ball suit an' mit an' bat 
 
 Fer little Jim, six yards o' silk, 
 
 A patent strainer fer the milk, 
 
 A gingham dress fer Mrs. Hi, 
 
 An' then sez he, "I don't see why 
 
 The grocery business ain't no good, 
 
 Though I've been doin' all I could. 
 
 As fur as I kin see, it must 
 
 Be all becuz the Sugar Trust, 
 
 Er some o' them big moneyed men 
 
 Is robbin' us poor folks again, 
 
 But, you see, 
 
 Economy, 
 
 It is my motto still," sez he. 
 
 "3
 
 TO THE GODDESS NICOTINE 
 
 Smoking my pipe in the evening and just sort of 
 
 dreaming dreams, 
 In the long Dakota twilight, or by winter firelight's 
 
 gleams, 
 Watching the smoke curl upward with my heart 
 
 from sorrow free, 
 As I burn upon thy altar my offering to thee. 
 
 Oh, thou Goddess, friend to mankind, asking naught 
 and giving all ; 
 
 Well pleased if we but worship and enjoy thy pleas 
 ing thrall, 
 
 Giving solace to our sorrows, and peace when hearts 
 are sad. 
 
 (Yet, they wonder that we worship and scoffers call 
 us mad.) 
 
 Still we show them naught but pity. Poor fools, they 
 can never know 
 
 Half the wonder and the beauty of the clouds 
 of smoke we blow. 
 
 Though we turn from thee in anger or to follow gods 
 
 more new, 
 They are merely fleeting fancies, for we all return 
 
 to you. 
 
 114
 
 TO THE GODDESS NICOTINE 
 
 Soon or late, we must come back to our first Divinity, 
 Mistress of Sorrow, Joy, and Hope, of Love and 
 
 Hate is she, 
 And in the smoke of a million pipes, our loyalty is 
 
 seen. 
 'Tis the incense from our altars to our Goddess, 
 
 Nicotine. 
 
 Smoking my pipe in the evening and just sort of 
 
 dreaming dreams, 
 In the long Dakota twilight or by winter firelight's 
 
 gleams, 
 Watching the smoke curl upward with my heart 
 
 from sorrow free, 
 Still I burn upon thy altar my offering to thee.
 
 THE SONG OF THE "BO" 
 
 I'm not so very pretty and I guess I need a shave, 
 And the style of clothes I'm wearing won't make 
 
 the ladies rave. 
 I'm a menace to the country, so you say. Perhaps 
 
 you know. 
 
 But here's my little song. 
 It ain't so very long, 
 
 For I ain't no literary gent ; I'm just a common "bo." 
 ****** 
 
 Did you ever have a feeling just want to get away ? 
 A Voice just sort of calling and commanding 
 
 you to go 
 Somewhere else, away from here just moving day 
 
 by day? 
 
 If you've ever heard that Voice you'll under 
 stand and know 
 
 The reason why I'm moving on. I haven't got a cent, 
 But I heard that Voice a-calling, and I dropped my 
 work and went. 
 
 I've held a lot of different jobs in this old world 
 
 so wide, 
 
 And some of them looked good to me. I thought 
 I'd stick awhile,
 
 THE SONG OF THE "BO" 
 
 I thought I'd work and save my coin and go to 
 
 church beside, 
 And maybe go and see the folks when I'd made 
 
 my little pile. 
 But I'd just get nicely settled down to live like 
 
 other men, 
 
 When that Voice would come a-calling and I'd nit 
 the trail again. 
 
 Riding in a box car and begging hand-outs at the 
 
 door, 
 And still that Voice is whispering to me, its 
 
 message low, 
 "Go on, still on, the world is wide and you should see 
 
 some more. 
 "Life's none too long to see it all, so jump the 
 
 train and go 
 "Somewhere else, no matter where, from the Lakes 
 
 to Mexico." 
 There's naught on earth can hold me, when that 
 
 whisper bids me go. 
 
 So I've lost all hopes of st6pping. I must be hiking 
 
 soon, 
 And I suppose I'll keep a-moving on until the 
 
 117
 
 THE SONG OF THE "BO" 
 
 For the rattle of a freight train is far the sweetest 
 
 tune 
 To my ears, of any music. She's coming round 
 
 the bend, 
 And I must be moving on again. My friends, I'll 
 
 say "Good bye." 
 It's my fate. The Voice has spoken. I must go 
 
 until I die. 
 
 I ain't no literary gent. I'm just a common "bo," 
 And my style ain't really polished, but now perhaps 
 
 you'll know 
 
 And understand the reason, why it is I can't remain 
 All my life on one same shift, 
 Why I jump my job and drift. 
 For I like my work and you but I've heard that 
 Voice again. 
 
 118
 
 NORTH DAKOTA 
 
 From many towns, from many states, with faith 
 
 and hope came we, 
 And some of us from distant lands that lie across 
 
 the sea. 
 With many hopes, with many aims, with many ends 
 
 in view, 
 From the frozen North and torrid South, to the land 
 
 where dreams come true. 
 And though we love the homeland, 
 
 We love thee still the best, 
 Our generous foster mother, 
 Our Lady of the West. 
 
 W r e love thy hills, we love thy plains where glows the 
 
 golden grain: 
 We love thee in thy many moods, in sunshine and 
 
 in rain. 
 Thy winds bring health; thy fields bring wealth; 
 
 and happiness is free, 
 For no man ever worked in vain for his reward from 
 
 thee. 
 Though we must toil to earn thy gifts, 
 
 Thy sons ne'er ask for rest, 
 When thy spirit bids them labor, 
 Our lady of the West. 
 
 119 
 
 - *
 
 NORTH DAKOTA 
 
 So, here's a toast from thy loyal sons to the land 
 
 we love the best ; 
 A toast (we must drink it in water) to Our Lady 
 
 of the West. 
 
 12*
 
 THE SLAVES OF THE COMMONPLACE 
 
 Ye have sung the praise of the heroes, 
 
 Their trials and victories 
 For the honor of the homeland, 
 
 In the lands across the seas. 
 Oft their valor has been proven 
 
 And their worth, that all may know, 
 But here's the tale of the other man, 
 
 The man who couldn't go. 
 
 Oh, the wanderlust is in us and we want to go away, 
 But home and duty call us and we cannot choose 
 
 but stay. 
 
 When the trumpets call to battle, 
 
 And the streets ring out with cheers, 
 When the mothers and the sweethearts 
 
 Try to smile and hide their tears ; 
 It is then that we are saddest, 
 
 It is then we feel the weight 
 Of the burden that is on us, 
 
 Who can only work and wait. 
 
 121
 
 THE SLAVES OF THE COMMONPLACE 
 
 It were sweet to die in battle while the war-cry 
 
 loudly rings, 
 But some of us must stay at home slaves of the 
 
 Common Things. 
 
 It is not that we are cowards, 
 
 Though some may call us so. 
 The voice of Duty bids us stay. 
 
 (God knows, we want to go.) 
 For some are free to roam the world 
 
 And fight for their country's fame, 
 But some must work to feed the rest, 
 
 And care for the sick and lame. 
 
 In the endless round of the Commonplace, we live 
 
 and work and die. 
 Though our lives are spent in petty things our souls 
 
 for freedom crv. 
 
 122
 
 THE JESTERS 
 
 Arrayed in motley, sat the jesting Fates, 
 Playing at chess with laughter, joke, and song, 
 Our earth for chess-board, nations for the squares 
 On which they moved, unheeding, right or wrong. 
 A game no more in which it mattered not 
 Who won or lost. Nor did they keep a score 
 Of games completed. When a pawn or king 
 Had done its little part to win, the thing 
 Was cast aside as worthless, used no more. 
 
 Yet we, the pawns their careless fingers move, 
 We wonder why we work, and fight, and love. 
 
 1-23
 
 AFTERWORD 
 
 All through this book, if you have had the patience 
 to read it, you have found poems about girls, many 
 girls, but never a word about my one real sweetheart. 
 
 I have tried to write verses about her, but failed. 
 The English language is pitifully inadequate and 
 my little jingles are almost a desecration when ap 
 plied to her. 
 
 If there is any merit in this book, if there is any 
 merit in anything I have ever done, the credit belongs 
 to her my Mother.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAC 
 
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