MLLE. SOIXANTE-QUINZE
Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s loveIs the graceful 75;As neat and slim, and as strong and trimAs ever a girl alive.Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen,And the light of her flashing glance,In the broken spray of the roaring frayIs the soul of embattled France.Her love is true as the heaven’s blue—She will fight for her love till death;Her hate is a flame no fear can tame,That slays with the lightning’s breath.For the sun of day turns fogged and gray,And night is a reeling hellWhen she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail,Or looses the bursting shell.From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne,She has held at bay the Hun,That with broken strength he may pay, at length,For the sins that his race has done;For Alsace, torn from the mother land,Ravished and mocked and chained;For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross,For holding her faith unstained.Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame,In thy people’s darkest hour,Who bade them thrill with patriot willBy the spell of thy mystic power,As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dartFrom arquebus and bow,Give us to drive, with the 75,Our bolts on a baser foe,That we who have come from Freedom’s homeAcross the western wave,Such blows shall give that France may liveAs once for us she gave.May our good guns play with a stinging sprayOn the Prussian ranks of war,And smite them yet as did LafayetteThe hireling Huns of yore!May we aim again at a tyrant’s menAs straight and swift a blowAs at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame,From the guns of Rochambeau!Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier loveIs the soixante-quinze, our boast,Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride,But the dread of the Kaiser’s host!J. M. H., F.A.
Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s loveIs the graceful 75;As neat and slim, and as strong and trimAs ever a girl alive.Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen,And the light of her flashing glance,In the broken spray of the roaring frayIs the soul of embattled France.Her love is true as the heaven’s blue—She will fight for her love till death;Her hate is a flame no fear can tame,That slays with the lightning’s breath.For the sun of day turns fogged and gray,And night is a reeling hellWhen she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail,Or looses the bursting shell.From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne,She has held at bay the Hun,That with broken strength he may pay, at length,For the sins that his race has done;For Alsace, torn from the mother land,Ravished and mocked and chained;For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross,For holding her faith unstained.Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame,In thy people’s darkest hour,Who bade them thrill with patriot willBy the spell of thy mystic power,As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dartFrom arquebus and bow,Give us to drive, with the 75,Our bolts on a baser foe,That we who have come from Freedom’s homeAcross the western wave,Such blows shall give that France may liveAs once for us she gave.May our good guns play with a stinging sprayOn the Prussian ranks of war,And smite them yet as did LafayetteThe hireling Huns of yore!May we aim again at a tyrant’s menAs straight and swift a blowAs at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame,From the guns of Rochambeau!Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier loveIs the soixante-quinze, our boast,Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride,But the dread of the Kaiser’s host!J. M. H., F.A.
Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s loveIs the graceful 75;As neat and slim, and as strong and trimAs ever a girl alive.
Oh, a mistress fit for a soldier’s love
Is the graceful 75;
As neat and slim, and as strong and trim
As ever a girl alive.
Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen,And the light of her flashing glance,In the broken spray of the roaring frayIs the soul of embattled France.
Where the steel-blue sheen of her mail is seen,
And the light of her flashing glance,
In the broken spray of the roaring fray
Is the soul of embattled France.
Her love is true as the heaven’s blue—She will fight for her love till death;Her hate is a flame no fear can tame,That slays with the lightning’s breath.
Her love is true as the heaven’s blue—
She will fight for her love till death;
Her hate is a flame no fear can tame,
That slays with the lightning’s breath.
For the sun of day turns fogged and gray,And night is a reeling hellWhen she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail,Or looses the bursting shell.
For the sun of day turns fogged and gray,
And night is a reeling hell
When she swings the flail of the shrapnel’s hail,
Or looses the bursting shell.
From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne,She has held at bay the Hun,That with broken strength he may pay, at length,For the sins that his race has done;
From high Lorraine to the Somme and the Aisne,
She has held at bay the Hun,
That with broken strength he may pay, at length,
For the sins that his race has done;
For Alsace, torn from the mother land,Ravished and mocked and chained;For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross,For holding her faith unstained.
For Alsace, torn from the mother land,
Ravished and mocked and chained;
For Belgium, nailed to the martyr’s cross,
For holding her faith unstained.
Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame,In thy people’s darkest hour,Who bade them thrill with patriot willBy the spell of thy mystic power,
Thou Maid, who cam’st, like a beacon flame,
In thy people’s darkest hour,
Who bade them thrill with patriot will
By the spell of thy mystic power,
As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dartFrom arquebus and bow,Give us to drive, with the 75,Our bolts on a baser foe,
As thou gav’st them heart to speed the dart
From arquebus and bow,
Give us to drive, with the 75,
Our bolts on a baser foe,
That we who have come from Freedom’s homeAcross the western wave,Such blows shall give that France may liveAs once for us she gave.
That we who have come from Freedom’s home
Across the western wave,
Such blows shall give that France may live
As once for us she gave.
May our good guns play with a stinging sprayOn the Prussian ranks of war,And smite them yet as did LafayetteThe hireling Huns of yore!
May our good guns play with a stinging spray
On the Prussian ranks of war,
And smite them yet as did Lafayette
The hireling Huns of yore!
May we aim again at a tyrant’s menAs straight and swift a blowAs at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame,From the guns of Rochambeau!
May we aim again at a tyrant’s men
As straight and swift a blow
As at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame,
From the guns of Rochambeau!
Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier loveIs the soixante-quinze, our boast,Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride,But the dread of the Kaiser’s host!J. M. H., F.A.
Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier love
Is the soixante-quinze, our boast,
Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride,
But the dread of the Kaiser’s host!
J. M. H., F.A.