The news, "the Old Land's in it,"Stirred us one August morn,Then waited not a minuteThe fearless British born.They were the first to offerTo die for England's nameScorning the shirking scoffer,Who would not play the game.But when the German KaiserOf victories could brag,Canadians got wiserAnd rallied round the flag.The Orangemen, stout-hearted,The cheery lads in green,When once the ball was startedIn khaki garb were seen.A regiment of Tories,A regiment of Grits,Discarded party worriesTo give the Kaiser fits.Battalions of free thinkersand regiments of JewsAnd some of water drinkers,And some that hit the booze.A regiment of Chinese,A regiment of Yanks,A regiment with fine kneesAnd bare and brawny shanks,A regiment of teachersWho laid aside the birch,And one of sons of preachers,A credit to the Church.A regiment of Colonels,Who couldn't get a sit,(To judge by their externalsThey're feeling fine and fit);A regiment of slackers,A regiment of thieves,And one of bold bushwhackers,All wearing maple leaves.Battalions, too, of Frenchmen,The breed that never yields,Are making splendid trench men,On Belgium's bloody fields.Battalions from the prairiesNow man the smoking tubes;From London and St. Marys,A regiment of rubes.Thus, to defend the nation,They rallied to a man,Our fighting populationSo cosmopolitan.Not one from danger blenches,They vie in skill and pluckAnd when they reach the trenches,We call them all Canuck.
The news, "the Old Land's in it,"Stirred us one August morn,Then waited not a minuteThe fearless British born.They were the first to offerTo die for England's nameScorning the shirking scoffer,Who would not play the game.
But when the German KaiserOf victories could brag,Canadians got wiserAnd rallied round the flag.The Orangemen, stout-hearted,The cheery lads in green,When once the ball was startedIn khaki garb were seen.
A regiment of Tories,A regiment of Grits,Discarded party worriesTo give the Kaiser fits.Battalions of free thinkersand regiments of JewsAnd some of water drinkers,And some that hit the booze.
A regiment of Chinese,A regiment of Yanks,A regiment with fine kneesAnd bare and brawny shanks,A regiment of teachersWho laid aside the birch,And one of sons of preachers,A credit to the Church.
A regiment of Colonels,Who couldn't get a sit,(To judge by their externalsThey're feeling fine and fit);A regiment of slackers,A regiment of thieves,And one of bold bushwhackers,All wearing maple leaves.
Battalions, too, of Frenchmen,The breed that never yields,Are making splendid trench men,On Belgium's bloody fields.Battalions from the prairiesNow man the smoking tubes;From London and St. Marys,A regiment of rubes.
Thus, to defend the nation,They rallied to a man,Our fighting populationSo cosmopolitan.Not one from danger blenches,They vie in skill and pluckAnd when they reach the trenches,We call them all Canuck.
The cause of Freedom needs our help,The Old Land's in the fray,It's up to every lion's whelpTo either fight or pay.The bloody Turk and savage HunStill ravish, burn and slay,Each loyal son must man a gun,Or stay at home and pay.Our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives,They nurse, and knit, and pray,Let men forego their selfish lives,And either fight or pay.The call is clear to sacrificeOur life, our purse, our play;Ere Honor dies, let us ariseAnd either fight or pay."England expects from every manHis duty on this day."'Twas thus Lord Nelson's message ranEre he began the fray.Shall we our noble heritage,See crumbling down like clay,This goodly age, a blotted page,And neither fight nor pay?Nay! While our British blood runs red,Let those refuse who may,We'll heed what mighty Nelson saidOn old Trafalgar day,From cottage, castle, palace, hall,We'll come without delay,At duty's call, and stake our all,To fight, or pay, or pray.
The cause of Freedom needs our help,The Old Land's in the fray,It's up to every lion's whelpTo either fight or pay.The bloody Turk and savage HunStill ravish, burn and slay,Each loyal son must man a gun,Or stay at home and pay.
Our sisters, mothers, sweethearts, wives,They nurse, and knit, and pray,Let men forego their selfish lives,And either fight or pay.The call is clear to sacrificeOur life, our purse, our play;Ere Honor dies, let us ariseAnd either fight or pay.
"England expects from every manHis duty on this day."'Twas thus Lord Nelson's message ranEre he began the fray.Shall we our noble heritage,See crumbling down like clay,This goodly age, a blotted page,And neither fight nor pay?
Nay! While our British blood runs red,Let those refuse who may,We'll heed what mighty Nelson saidOn old Trafalgar day,From cottage, castle, palace, hall,We'll come without delay,At duty's call, and stake our all,To fight, or pay, or pray.
The jungle law is broken;From forest, field and plain,The beasts and birds have spoken,"The traitor must be slain,"The surly bear comes growling,From out his lonesome den;He hears the were-wolf howling,Athirst for blood of men.The fierce war eagle screechesAcross the Channel deep,His scream the lion reachesAnd rouses him from sleep;The busy beaver hidingIn far off northern wood,The mighty bull moose, stridingIn stately solitude.The humpy, bumpy cattle,The tiger from his lair,Go down into the battleBeside the timid hare.The elephant and camel,The ostrich and emu,Weird things, both bird and mammal,And old man Kangaroo.All vow, by fur and feather,Each with one purpose filled,To work and fight together,Until the were-wolf's killed.Meanwhile in war's arena,Unmoved by tears and groans,The buzzard and hyenaPick clean the victim's bones.
The jungle law is broken;From forest, field and plain,The beasts and birds have spoken,"The traitor must be slain,"The surly bear comes growling,From out his lonesome den;He hears the were-wolf howling,Athirst for blood of men.
The fierce war eagle screechesAcross the Channel deep,His scream the lion reachesAnd rouses him from sleep;The busy beaver hidingIn far off northern wood,The mighty bull moose, stridingIn stately solitude.
The humpy, bumpy cattle,The tiger from his lair,Go down into the battleBeside the timid hare.The elephant and camel,The ostrich and emu,Weird things, both bird and mammal,And old man Kangaroo.
All vow, by fur and feather,Each with one purpose filled,To work and fight together,Until the were-wolf's killed.Meanwhile in war's arena,Unmoved by tears and groans,The buzzard and hyenaPick clean the victim's bones.
'Cause brother Ben has gone to fightAcross the sea so far,I like to sit around at nightAnd read about the war,But when I think me and my chumsAre fighting Fritz in France,My ma asks if I've done my sums;A feller gets no chance.And when I'm marching proudly backWith fifty captured Huns,My dad will say "retire Jack".That's how they spike my guns.My teacher's a conscriptionist,She calls me "Johnnie dear,"But backs it with an iron fistAnd so I volunteer.I got kept in at school one dayFor lessons not half learned,And when dad asked, "Why this delay?"I said I'd been interned.And when our test exams came outAnd mine were extra bad,I said, "We needn't fuss aboutA scrap of paper, dad."When sister's chap comes round at night,And pa seems in a rage,Ma only smiles; she knows all right,It's just dad's camoflage.And when I entertain this beauWhile Sis puts on her dress,Sometimes I get a dime, you know;That's strategy, I guess.My dad is getting rather stout,And hates to mow the lawn;But when he gets the mower out,First thing he knows I'm gone;But when I've trouble with my paNo matter what it's for,I make an ally of my ma,And then I win the war.
'Cause brother Ben has gone to fightAcross the sea so far,I like to sit around at nightAnd read about the war,But when I think me and my chumsAre fighting Fritz in France,My ma asks if I've done my sums;A feller gets no chance.
And when I'm marching proudly backWith fifty captured Huns,My dad will say "retire Jack".That's how they spike my guns.My teacher's a conscriptionist,She calls me "Johnnie dear,"But backs it with an iron fistAnd so I volunteer.
I got kept in at school one dayFor lessons not half learned,And when dad asked, "Why this delay?"I said I'd been interned.And when our test exams came outAnd mine were extra bad,I said, "We needn't fuss aboutA scrap of paper, dad."
When sister's chap comes round at night,And pa seems in a rage,Ma only smiles; she knows all right,It's just dad's camoflage.And when I entertain this beauWhile Sis puts on her dress,Sometimes I get a dime, you know;That's strategy, I guess.
My dad is getting rather stout,And hates to mow the lawn;But when he gets the mower out,First thing he knows I'm gone;But when I've trouble with my paNo matter what it's for,I make an ally of my ma,And then I win the war.
This is the trench that Fritz built.This is the Hun who lay in the trench thatFritz built.This is the gun that killed the Hun who layin the trench that Fritz built.This is the farmer's only son, who mans thegun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trenchthat Fritz built.This is the farmer, weary and worn, whoraised the son, who mans the gun, that killedthe Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritzbuilt.This is she, who in youth's bright morn,was wed to the man, now weary and worn,'tis she to whom the son was born, who infront of the battle, all tattered and torn, stillmans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay inthe trench that Fritz built.This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn,who drives a car with a tooting horn, andlaughs at the farmer weary and worn, and hiswife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoesand beets and corn, because the son, whoto them was born, is in front of the battle, alltattered and torn, still manning the gun thatkilled the Hun, who lay in the trench thatFritz built.This is the maid who treats with scorn theshifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and hisshining car with the tooting horn, but honorsthe farmer weary and worn, and his wife whohelps him hoe the corn, and milk the cowsin the early morn, for she loves the son whoto them was born, who in front of the battleall tattered and torn, still mans the gun thatkilled the Hun, who lay in the trench thatFritz built!
This is the trench that Fritz built.
This is the Hun who lay in the trench thatFritz built.
This is the gun that killed the Hun who layin the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer's only son, who mans thegun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trenchthat Fritz built.
This is the farmer, weary and worn, whoraised the son, who mans the gun, that killedthe Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritzbuilt.
This is she, who in youth's bright morn,was wed to the man, now weary and worn,'tis she to whom the son was born, who infront of the battle, all tattered and torn, stillmans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay inthe trench that Fritz built.
This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn,who drives a car with a tooting horn, andlaughs at the farmer weary and worn, and hiswife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoesand beets and corn, because the son, whoto them was born, is in front of the battle, alltattered and torn, still manning the gun thatkilled the Hun, who lay in the trench thatFritz built.
This is the maid who treats with scorn theshifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and hisshining car with the tooting horn, but honorsthe farmer weary and worn, and his wife whohelps him hoe the corn, and milk the cowsin the early morn, for she loves the son whoto them was born, who in front of the battleall tattered and torn, still mans the gun thatkilled the Hun, who lay in the trench thatFritz built!
Ten little slackers standing in a line,One went to U. S., then there were nine.Nine little slackers out for a skate,One broke his leg and then there were eight.Eight little slackers playing odd and even,Got in a mix up and then there were seven.Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks,One got dyspepsia, then there were six.Six little slackers only half alive,One got married and then there were five.Five little slackers were such a boreThe fool killer got one, then there were four.Four little slackers out on a spree,Auto turned turtle, and then there were three.Three little slackers in a canoe,Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two.Two little slackers, one was a Hun,He got imprisoned, then there was one.One little slacker, war nearly won,He got conscripted, then there were none.One little, two little, three little slackers,Four little, five little, six little slackers,Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers,Ten little slacker men.
Ten little slackers standing in a line,One went to U. S., then there were nine.Nine little slackers out for a skate,One broke his leg and then there were eight.Eight little slackers playing odd and even,Got in a mix up and then there were seven.Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks,One got dyspepsia, then there were six.Six little slackers only half alive,One got married and then there were five.Five little slackers were such a boreThe fool killer got one, then there were four.Four little slackers out on a spree,Auto turned turtle, and then there were three.Three little slackers in a canoe,Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two.Two little slackers, one was a Hun,He got imprisoned, then there was one.One little slacker, war nearly won,He got conscripted, then there were none.One little, two little, three little slackers,Four little, five little, six little slackers,Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers,Ten little slacker men.
Jack Sprat can eat no fat,His wife can eat no lean,Because upon their platter nowNo meat is ever seen.Make a cake, make a cake, my good man,Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran,Tick it and pick it and mark it with B,And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.Little deeds and mortgages,Little bonds and stocks,Help amid financial stormsTo keep us off the rocks.Little loads of stove wood,Little jags of coal,Make our pocket books look sick,And put us in the hole.Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,Eating his whole wheat pie,He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum,And he said, I don't like this old pie.Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper,What did he sing for? White bread and butter;But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread,With oleomargarine on it to spread.Farmer Dingle had a little pig,Not very little and not very big;It weighed two hundred or a few pounds overAnd brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover.Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied,And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried,"Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he,"They need," said he,"Good feed," said she,So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.One little man went to battle,One little man stayed at home,One little man got white bread and butter,One little man got none,One little man cried see, see, see,You'll eat brown breadTill the war is done.Tom, Tom, the piper's son,Stole a pig and away he run,"High cost of meatI've got you beat,"Said Tom, while making his retreat.Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill,And fought on land and water,Till Nick fell down and lost his crown,And Bill went tumbling after.There was a crooked manWho wore a crooked smile,And built a crooked railroadO'er many a crooked mile,He got some crooked statesmenTo play his crooked games,And they all got crooked titlesBefore their crooked names.
Jack Sprat can eat no fat,His wife can eat no lean,Because upon their platter nowNo meat is ever seen.
Make a cake, make a cake, my good man,Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran,Tick it and pick it and mark it with B,And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.
Little deeds and mortgages,Little bonds and stocks,Help amid financial stormsTo keep us off the rocks.
Little loads of stove wood,Little jags of coal,Make our pocket books look sick,And put us in the hole.
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,Eating his whole wheat pie,He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum,And he said, I don't like this old pie.
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper,What did he sing for? White bread and butter;But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread,With oleomargarine on it to spread.
Farmer Dingle had a little pig,Not very little and not very big;It weighed two hundred or a few pounds overAnd brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover.Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied,And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried,"Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he,"They need," said he,"Good feed," said she,So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.
One little man went to battle,One little man stayed at home,One little man got white bread and butter,One little man got none,One little man cried see, see, see,You'll eat brown breadTill the war is done.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,Stole a pig and away he run,"High cost of meatI've got you beat,"Said Tom, while making his retreat.
Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill,And fought on land and water,Till Nick fell down and lost his crown,And Bill went tumbling after.
There was a crooked manWho wore a crooked smile,And built a crooked railroadO'er many a crooked mile,He got some crooked statesmenTo play his crooked games,And they all got crooked titlesBefore their crooked names.
Sing a song of sixpence,Country going dry,Four and twenty booze shopsSelling no more rye.When the bars were open,Whiskey had its fling,Now we ride the water cart,Along with George, our king.Once dad, in the bar room,Counted out his money,Weary mother sat at home,Patching clothes for sonny.Now dad's in the gardenWearing out his clothes,Money in his pocket,Bloom all off his nose.
Sing a song of sixpence,Country going dry,Four and twenty booze shopsSelling no more rye.
When the bars were open,Whiskey had its fling,Now we ride the water cart,Along with George, our king.
Once dad, in the bar room,Counted out his money,Weary mother sat at home,Patching clothes for sonny.
Now dad's in the gardenWearing out his clothes,Money in his pocket,Bloom all off his nose.
"The world is mad, my masters,"The poet had the factsTo prove this sweeping statement,In man's punk-headed acts;For since the day when AdamPartook of the wrong tree,We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered;"What fools these mortals be".Take out your horse or auto,And drive the country roads,And see the fields and orchardsBearing their precious loads.Old Mother Earth producesWith lavish hand and free,But half is lost or ruinedBy man's stupidity.Ten thousand tons of applesWill surely go to wasteWhile poor folk in the citiesWill hardly get a taste.We take good wheat and barleyAnd manufacture bums,Whose wives and little childrenAre starving in the slums.The man that's poor as woodwork,And nearly always broke,Can somehow find a nickelTo puff away in smoke;While those who have the moneyTo eat and drink their fills,Are sure to over-do it,And run up doctor bills.If, when the times are peacefulI kill one man, by heck!They'll call it bloody murder,And hang me by the neck.In war-time he's a hero,Who sends through air or seaA bomb to blow a thousandInto Eternity.And so, dear gentle reader,You see, by all the rules,That earth's whole populationExcept ourselves are fools.
"The world is mad, my masters,"The poet had the factsTo prove this sweeping statement,In man's punk-headed acts;For since the day when AdamPartook of the wrong tree,We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered;"What fools these mortals be".
Take out your horse or auto,And drive the country roads,And see the fields and orchardsBearing their precious loads.Old Mother Earth producesWith lavish hand and free,But half is lost or ruinedBy man's stupidity.
Ten thousand tons of applesWill surely go to wasteWhile poor folk in the citiesWill hardly get a taste.We take good wheat and barleyAnd manufacture bums,Whose wives and little childrenAre starving in the slums.
The man that's poor as woodwork,And nearly always broke,Can somehow find a nickelTo puff away in smoke;While those who have the moneyTo eat and drink their fills,Are sure to over-do it,And run up doctor bills.
If, when the times are peacefulI kill one man, by heck!They'll call it bloody murder,And hang me by the neck.In war-time he's a hero,Who sends through air or seaA bomb to blow a thousandInto Eternity.
And so, dear gentle reader,You see, by all the rules,That earth's whole populationExcept ourselves are fools.
When icy blasts blow fierce and wild,Cutting the face like steel,And summer's heart is trodden down'Neath winter's iron heel,It's all a part of Nature's plan,So stay and play the game;Next Spring will bring the violets,And roses just the same.When Pharaoh's lean ill-favored kineHave grazed the pastures brown.And, on a parched and starving worldThe brazen sun glares down;Though Canaan's forests, fields and farms,Are scorched, as with a flame,There's food in Joseph's granariesIn Egypt just the same.When Pharaoh makes the task more hardFor overburdened hands,And stubble fields refuse the strawHis tale of bricks demands;What matter if our little livesGo out in fear and shame?The waters of the mighty NileFlow onward just the same.When, at the front, to bar the way,The Red Sea waters stand,And Egypt's hosts are close behind,A fierce relentless band;Intent their firstborn to avenge,Their Hebrew slaves to claim:Look up, and see the pyramids,Firm standing, just the same.When human ghouls hell's lid upliftTo plunder, burn and kill,And Truth seems driven from her throne,Say to your heart, "Be still!"Don't think that Freedom's day is done,And Honor but a name,For right still reigns and planets gleamIn Heaven just the same.
When icy blasts blow fierce and wild,Cutting the face like steel,And summer's heart is trodden down'Neath winter's iron heel,It's all a part of Nature's plan,So stay and play the game;Next Spring will bring the violets,And roses just the same.
When Pharaoh's lean ill-favored kineHave grazed the pastures brown.And, on a parched and starving worldThe brazen sun glares down;Though Canaan's forests, fields and farms,Are scorched, as with a flame,There's food in Joseph's granariesIn Egypt just the same.
When Pharaoh makes the task more hardFor overburdened hands,And stubble fields refuse the strawHis tale of bricks demands;What matter if our little livesGo out in fear and shame?The waters of the mighty NileFlow onward just the same.
When, at the front, to bar the way,The Red Sea waters stand,And Egypt's hosts are close behind,A fierce relentless band;Intent their firstborn to avenge,Their Hebrew slaves to claim:Look up, and see the pyramids,Firm standing, just the same.
When human ghouls hell's lid upliftTo plunder, burn and kill,And Truth seems driven from her throne,Say to your heart, "Be still!"Don't think that Freedom's day is done,And Honor but a name,For right still reigns and planets gleamIn Heaven just the same.
The main camping ground of the Huron Indians was near where Camp Borden is now situated.
Where soldiers build their camp fires,At night there gather 'roundThe spirits of the HuronsFrom Happy Hunting ground,No sentry hears their footsteps,They need no countersigns;As silent as the moonlight,They pass within the lines.Fierce shine their dusky facesAs through the tents they glide,Once more they smell the war paintAnd know a warrior's pride;The white man's modern weaponsTheir ghostly fingers feel,The guns so swift and deadly,The long sharp blades of steel.They nod to one another,Nor knew so wild a joySince, leagued with the Algonquins,They fought the Iroquois;Among the sleeping soldiersThey pass the silent night,And nudge, and smile, and whisper,"White brother make big fight."When shafts of light are breakingAcross the eastern sky,They wrap their mantles 'round them,And breathe a soft "Good-bye",Then vanish like the shadowsThat lurk among the trees,The sentry hearing onlyThe sighing of the breeze.
Where soldiers build their camp fires,At night there gather 'roundThe spirits of the HuronsFrom Happy Hunting ground,No sentry hears their footsteps,They need no countersigns;As silent as the moonlight,They pass within the lines.
Fierce shine their dusky facesAs through the tents they glide,Once more they smell the war paintAnd know a warrior's pride;The white man's modern weaponsTheir ghostly fingers feel,The guns so swift and deadly,The long sharp blades of steel.
They nod to one another,Nor knew so wild a joySince, leagued with the Algonquins,They fought the Iroquois;Among the sleeping soldiersThey pass the silent night,And nudge, and smile, and whisper,"White brother make big fight."
When shafts of light are breakingAcross the eastern sky,They wrap their mantles 'round them,And breathe a soft "Good-bye",Then vanish like the shadowsThat lurk among the trees,The sentry hearing onlyThe sighing of the breeze.
Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy,All your pockets with cartridges cram;The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy,Seem to frighten you some, Uncle Sam.You once were the first to get ready,The most eager in Liberty's fight,Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm and steady,When you battled for justice and right.Time was when each star in Old GloryShone for freedom all round the wide world.The winds and the waves told the storyWheresoever its folds were unfurled;But now your good rifle is rusty,All your work of long years is undone.Old Glory, bedraggled and dusty,Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.There once was a time, Uncle Sammy,When the honor of sister or wife,E'en that of a poor negro mammy,You'd defend, Uncle Sam, with your life.But now, what's the matter I wonder,You see womanhood treated like junk,And think but of guarding your plunder:Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?It seems that your head isn't level,With your Wilsons, and Bryans and Fords,You let things all go to the devil,And protect your poor people with words.It can't be the killing that vexes,And prevents you from getting your gun,You're lynching men now, down in TexasFor one tenth that the Kaiser has done.
Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy,All your pockets with cartridges cram;The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy,Seem to frighten you some, Uncle Sam.You once were the first to get ready,The most eager in Liberty's fight,Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm and steady,When you battled for justice and right.
Time was when each star in Old GloryShone for freedom all round the wide world.The winds and the waves told the storyWheresoever its folds were unfurled;But now your good rifle is rusty,All your work of long years is undone.Old Glory, bedraggled and dusty,Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.
There once was a time, Uncle Sammy,When the honor of sister or wife,E'en that of a poor negro mammy,You'd defend, Uncle Sam, with your life.But now, what's the matter I wonder,You see womanhood treated like junk,And think but of guarding your plunder:Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?
It seems that your head isn't level,With your Wilsons, and Bryans and Fords,You let things all go to the devil,And protect your poor people with words.It can't be the killing that vexes,And prevents you from getting your gun,You're lynching men now, down in TexasFor one tenth that the Kaiser has done.
Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow,That Duffeldorf blighter was running his show?The fellow who hinted that Sammy was slack,With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back;For Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong,('Twas Somebody's blunder that held him so long)He's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came,The chap that is yellow has some other name.This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race,He makes himself handy in any old place:Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song,Or lick any German who happens along:A single hand talker, as good as the best,A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest,A long distance hiker, who never goes lame;He's not any piker whatever the game.There's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun,He'll sure be a sticker when facing the Hun;Can camp in a palace, or live in a tent,Drink wine from a chalice, or eat meat in Lent;Sweet tongued to the ladies and kind to the kids,Condemns things to Hades, when down by the skids;At home on the river, plantation or farm,Sometimes a high liver who does himself harm.Abstemious, very, when prices are high,He learns to be merry without any pie;An expert at poker, with money to spare,A down and out broker who plays solitaire;An orator forceful, a whale to invent,O Sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent,Though late in the race, Sam, we wish you good luck,Come on, take your place, Sam, with Johnnie Canuck.
Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow,That Duffeldorf blighter was running his show?The fellow who hinted that Sammy was slack,With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back;For Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong,('Twas Somebody's blunder that held him so long)He's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came,The chap that is yellow has some other name.
This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race,He makes himself handy in any old place:Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song,Or lick any German who happens along:A single hand talker, as good as the best,A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest,A long distance hiker, who never goes lame;He's not any piker whatever the game.
There's no one that's quicker at pulling a gun,He'll sure be a sticker when facing the Hun;Can camp in a palace, or live in a tent,Drink wine from a chalice, or eat meat in Lent;Sweet tongued to the ladies and kind to the kids,Condemns things to Hades, when down by the skids;At home on the river, plantation or farm,Sometimes a high liver who does himself harm.
Abstemious, very, when prices are high,He learns to be merry without any pie;An expert at poker, with money to spare,A down and out broker who plays solitaire;An orator forceful, a whale to invent,O Sammy's resourceful, a versatile gent,Though late in the race, Sam, we wish you good luck,Come on, take your place, Sam, with Johnnie Canuck.
Columbia, my sister,Republic great and free,When Liberty was threatenedI looked in vain to thee;That hope was vain, my sister,You lost your greatest chance;Men live on lies in Utah,Men die for truth in France.Columbia, my sister,You saw my blood run red,My sons and daughters murdered,The tears my orphans shed;You raised no voice in protest,To stop the Hun's advance;Men live at ease in Kansas,With hell let loose in France.Columbia, my sister,Your children you have seen,Drowned in the cruel oceanBy German submarine;But baseball is important,The theatre and dance,And pleasure rules in TexasWhile horror reigns in France.Columbia, my sister,In sordid love of gainYour vultures and hyenasWax fat upon the slain;The nations, sorrow stricken,Receive your careless glance,And wealth in MassachusettsMeans poverty in France.Columbia, my sister,I know your heart is right,Though on your head has fallenThis hellish Hunnish blight;I love you still, my sister,And warn you, lest perchanceThe Huns may rule WisconsinWhen driven out of France.
Columbia, my sister,Republic great and free,When Liberty was threatenedI looked in vain to thee;That hope was vain, my sister,You lost your greatest chance;Men live on lies in Utah,Men die for truth in France.
Columbia, my sister,You saw my blood run red,My sons and daughters murdered,The tears my orphans shed;You raised no voice in protest,To stop the Hun's advance;Men live at ease in Kansas,With hell let loose in France.
Columbia, my sister,Your children you have seen,Drowned in the cruel oceanBy German submarine;But baseball is important,The theatre and dance,And pleasure rules in TexasWhile horror reigns in France.
Columbia, my sister,In sordid love of gainYour vultures and hyenasWax fat upon the slain;The nations, sorrow stricken,Receive your careless glance,And wealth in MassachusettsMeans poverty in France.
Columbia, my sister,I know your heart is right,Though on your head has fallenThis hellish Hunnish blight;I love you still, my sister,And warn you, lest perchanceThe Huns may rule WisconsinWhen driven out of France.
Jim marched away one summer dayTo fight the boastful Hun,In khaki clad, as fine a ladAs ever carried gun,No braver knight e'er went to fight,In shining coat of mail,In days of old, for love or gold,Or for the Holy Grail.His aim was sure, his heart was pure,Like good Sir Galahad,He played the game when hardships cameHis face was always glad,Until, by chance, somewhere in France,He saw a "Hometown Sun,"He read one page, then in a rageHe strafed it like a Hun.The girl he loved had faithless proved,And German slacker wed;That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke,He wished that he were dead.He who had been so straight and clean,And every fellow's chum,Now lived apart with hardened heart,And soaked himself with rum.'Mid rats and mice and fleas and liceHe spent his days and nights;Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood,He fought a hundred fights;His faith was lost, the angel hostOf Mons he didn't see;No Comrade White beheld his plight,With loving sympathy.The devil strip, where bullets zipp,The narrow neutral bandWhere man to man they fight and planTo win that "No Man's Land";Here Jim would go to hunt the foe,He thought it only fun,And that day lost that couldn't boastAnother slaughtered Hun.His awful deeds so say the creeds,Jim's bright young manhood marred;His health was sound, he got no wound,But sin his spirit scarred.Some lost their health, some lost their wealth,Of all war took its toll,Some lost their life in bloody strife,Jim only lost his soul.
Jim marched away one summer dayTo fight the boastful Hun,In khaki clad, as fine a ladAs ever carried gun,No braver knight e'er went to fight,In shining coat of mail,In days of old, for love or gold,Or for the Holy Grail.
His aim was sure, his heart was pure,Like good Sir Galahad,He played the game when hardships cameHis face was always glad,Until, by chance, somewhere in France,He saw a "Hometown Sun,"He read one page, then in a rageHe strafed it like a Hun.
The girl he loved had faithless proved,And German slacker wed;That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke,He wished that he were dead.He who had been so straight and clean,And every fellow's chum,Now lived apart with hardened heart,And soaked himself with rum.
'Mid rats and mice and fleas and liceHe spent his days and nights;Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood,He fought a hundred fights;His faith was lost, the angel hostOf Mons he didn't see;No Comrade White beheld his plight,With loving sympathy.
The devil strip, where bullets zipp,The narrow neutral bandWhere man to man they fight and planTo win that "No Man's Land";Here Jim would go to hunt the foe,He thought it only fun,And that day lost that couldn't boastAnother slaughtered Hun.
His awful deeds so say the creeds,Jim's bright young manhood marred;His health was sound, he got no wound,But sin his spirit scarred.Some lost their health, some lost their wealth,Of all war took its toll,Some lost their life in bloody strife,Jim only lost his soul.
The war god calls, whate'er befallsHis orders must be filled,Though work may stop in mine and shop,And farms may lie untilled.At his command each human handMust toil to pay the priceIn coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat,Oil, cotton, corn or rice.From pole to pole he takes controlOf land, and air, and tide,Then death and dearth fill all the earth,And hell's gate opens wide.Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sandsNo white man ever saw,Bring all their spoil, with endless toil,To fill the monster's maw.O'er ice and snow the huskies go,Beneath the northern star,And gather toll, a scanty dole,To pay the god of war.From out the States go mighty freightsOf cotton, corn and oil;From West to East, to feed the beast,The people save and toil.The West's astir, the binders whirrAround the settler's shack;The threshers hum, lest winter comeBefore the wheat's in sack.The bullocks strain on loaded wain,Piled high with bales of wool,A season's clip from shed to ship;The cargo must be full.The drivers swear, the bulls by pairPlunge panting through the dust,Like things accurst they die of thirstThe war gods say they must.Where battle fields dread harvests yieldThe war god's revels be,Where blood runs red, he counts the dead,And shrieks and howls in glee.With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffsThe precious crimson tide;He'll drink his fill, nor rest untilHis blood lust's satisfied.
The war god calls, whate'er befallsHis orders must be filled,Though work may stop in mine and shop,And farms may lie untilled.
At his command each human handMust toil to pay the priceIn coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat,Oil, cotton, corn or rice.
From pole to pole he takes controlOf land, and air, and tide,Then death and dearth fill all the earth,And hell's gate opens wide.
Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sandsNo white man ever saw,Bring all their spoil, with endless toil,To fill the monster's maw.
O'er ice and snow the huskies go,Beneath the northern star,And gather toll, a scanty dole,To pay the god of war.
From out the States go mighty freightsOf cotton, corn and oil;From West to East, to feed the beast,The people save and toil.
The West's astir, the binders whirrAround the settler's shack;The threshers hum, lest winter comeBefore the wheat's in sack.
The bullocks strain on loaded wain,Piled high with bales of wool,A season's clip from shed to ship;The cargo must be full.
The drivers swear, the bulls by pairPlunge panting through the dust,Like things accurst they die of thirstThe war gods say they must.
Where battle fields dread harvests yieldThe war god's revels be,Where blood runs red, he counts the dead,And shrieks and howls in glee.
With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffsThe precious crimson tide;He'll drink his fill, nor rest untilHis blood lust's satisfied.
We condemn, with hot curses, the HunFor his piracy, perjury, pride,For his nameless atrocities done,For the ten million victims that died.Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies,When the day of our victory comes,While pale children, with piteous cries,Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.We despite the degenerate YankWith his blood-spattered idol of gold,Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank,And political pottage has sold.Then we send our poor boys to the warWith a prayer that they keep themselves clean,And we purchase a shining new car,Praying harder for cheap gasoline.We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks;They must learn to be true to their friends;They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks,Using war for their own selfish ends.But our grafters their pockets may fill,While valiantly waving the flag,Caring nothing who settles the bill,If they only get off with the swag.We abhor the unspeakable Turk,For his orgies of murder and shame,His detestable devilish workDone in honor of Allah's fair name;Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed,While afar off the publican stood,But forget the Creator has madeAll the children of men of one blood.
We condemn, with hot curses, the HunFor his piracy, perjury, pride,For his nameless atrocities done,For the ten million victims that died.Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies,When the day of our victory comes,While pale children, with piteous cries,Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.
We despite the degenerate YankWith his blood-spattered idol of gold,Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank,And political pottage has sold.Then we send our poor boys to the warWith a prayer that they keep themselves clean,And we purchase a shining new car,Praying harder for cheap gasoline.
We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks;They must learn to be true to their friends;They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks,Using war for their own selfish ends.But our grafters their pockets may fill,While valiantly waving the flag,Caring nothing who settles the bill,If they only get off with the swag.
We abhor the unspeakable Turk,For his orgies of murder and shame,His detestable devilish workDone in honor of Allah's fair name;Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed,While afar off the publican stood,But forget the Creator has madeAll the children of men of one blood.
This world has spots made holyBy deeds or lives of love,Has shrines where high and lowlyAlike, their hearts may prove;This age, when faith might falterMid shriek of shot and shell,Has added one more altar,The grave of Nurse Cavell.She cared for sick and dying,Knew neither friend nor foe,She spent her strength in tryingTo heal a neighbor's woe.For deeds by love inspiredThe Kaiser's vengeance fellOn form so frail and tired,Heroic Nurse Cavell.What though the Prussian kulturNow threatened her with death;She met the screaming vultureIn simple, quiet faith,"I am an English woman,I love my country well,But must not hate a foeman,"Said kindly Nurse Cavell.She faced the guns with even,Calm, fearless, English eyes,And then, her foes forgiven,Made willing sacrifice;Thus, at the midnight hour,In Prussian prison cell,Crushed by a tyrant's power,Died Christlike Nurse Cavell.But when no more war legionsIn battles fierce are hurled,When, to remotest regions,Peace reigns throughout the world;Where'er beyond the watersThe British peoples dwellMothers will tell their daughtersThe tale of Nurse Cavell.
This world has spots made holyBy deeds or lives of love,Has shrines where high and lowlyAlike, their hearts may prove;This age, when faith might falterMid shriek of shot and shell,Has added one more altar,The grave of Nurse Cavell.
She cared for sick and dying,Knew neither friend nor foe,She spent her strength in tryingTo heal a neighbor's woe.For deeds by love inspiredThe Kaiser's vengeance fellOn form so frail and tired,Heroic Nurse Cavell.
What though the Prussian kulturNow threatened her with death;She met the screaming vultureIn simple, quiet faith,"I am an English woman,I love my country well,But must not hate a foeman,"Said kindly Nurse Cavell.
She faced the guns with even,Calm, fearless, English eyes,And then, her foes forgiven,Made willing sacrifice;Thus, at the midnight hour,In Prussian prison cell,Crushed by a tyrant's power,Died Christlike Nurse Cavell.
But when no more war legionsIn battles fierce are hurled,When, to remotest regions,Peace reigns throughout the world;Where'er beyond the watersThe British peoples dwellMothers will tell their daughtersThe tale of Nurse Cavell.