THE LITTLE DREAMS

Now, France is a pleasant land to knowIf you’re back in a billet town,And a hell of a hole for the human moleWhere the trenches burrow down;But where doughboys be in their worn O.D.,Whatever their daily grinds,There’s a little dream on this sort of themeIn the background of their minds:“Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kitAnd the barrel off my gatJust to take a stroll up Main StreetIn a new Fedora hat;Just to hit the Rexall drug storeFor an ice-cream soda stew,And not a doggoned officerTo tell me what to do.”Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell holeWith a Chauchat at his eye;There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P.And a Fokker in the sky.It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trenchAnd ten to the German wire,But what does he hear, more loud and clearThan the crack of harassing fire?Echoed footsteps on the marbleThrobs of a revolving door,And the starter’s ticking signal—“Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!”Click of coins on the cigar stand;Two stout parties passing by—“I sold short and took no chances;Lackawanna’s too damn high.”Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deepWho once was a poor N.G.The field phone rings and someone sings,“Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3Is spilling lach on Mary Black;Have Jane retaliate.”Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar,While he thinks this hymn of hate:“That north forty must look pretty,Head high, now, and ears all set;And the haystacks in the meadow—Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet?Crickets clicking in the stubble;Apples reddening on the trees—Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double;That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still,At the end of a village street;The sunset red on the woods ahead,And a sentry on his beat.The hour chimes from the ancient spire,A child laughs out below,And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies,Behold, in the afterglow,Row on row of smoking chimneys,Long steel roofs and swinging cranes,Maze of tracks and puffing engines,Creeping strings of shunted trains,Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses,Lots, with brick and lath piled high;Whips of shade trees by the curbings,Yellow trolleys clanging by.These are tawdry thoughts in an epic timeFor martial souls to own?They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend,That are bred of our blood and bone.A mustard shell it is very well,And an egg grenade’s O.K.,But we get our steam from our little dreamOf the good old U.S.A.Cotton fields along the river,Night lights streaming from a mill;Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver,Dump cars lining out a fill;Presses roaring in a basement,Woods, with waters gleaming through—Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go thereWhen we’ve rid the world of you!Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A.

Now, France is a pleasant land to know

If you’re back in a billet town,

And a hell of a hole for the human mole

Where the trenches burrow down;

But where doughboys be in their worn O.D.,

Whatever their daily grinds,

There’s a little dream on this sort of theme

In the background of their minds:

“Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kitAnd the barrel off my gatJust to take a stroll up Main StreetIn a new Fedora hat;Just to hit the Rexall drug storeFor an ice-cream soda stew,And not a doggoned officerTo tell me what to do.”

“Oh, gee whiz, I’d give my mess kit

And the barrel off my gat

Just to take a stroll up Main Street

In a new Fedora hat;

Just to hit the Rexall drug store

For an ice-cream soda stew,

And not a doggoned officer

To tell me what to do.”

Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell holeWith a Chauchat at his eye;There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P.And a Fokker in the sky.It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trenchAnd ten to the German wire,But what does he hear, more loud and clearThan the crack of harassing fire?

Here’s a youngster sprawled in an old shell hole

With a Chauchat at his eye;

There’s some wide H.E. on the next O.P.

And a Fokker in the sky.

It’s a hundred yards to his jump-off trench

And ten to the German wire,

But what does he hear, more loud and clear

Than the crack of harassing fire?

Echoed footsteps on the marbleThrobs of a revolving door,And the starter’s ticking signal—“Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!”Click of coins on the cigar stand;Two stout parties passing by—“I sold short and took no chances;Lackawanna’s too damn high.”

Echoed footsteps on the marble

Throbs of a revolving door,

And the starter’s ticking signal—

“Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!”

Click of coins on the cigar stand;

Two stout parties passing by—

“I sold short and took no chances;

Lackawanna’s too damn high.”

Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deepWho once was a poor N.G.The field phone rings and someone sings,“Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3Is spilling lach on Mary Black;Have Jane retaliate.”Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar,While he thinks this hymn of hate:

Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deep

Who once was a poor N.G.

The field phone rings and someone sings,

“Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3

Is spilling lach on Mary Black;

Have Jane retaliate.”

Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar,

While he thinks this hymn of hate:

“That north forty must look pretty,Head high, now, and ears all set;And the haystacks in the meadow—Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet?Crickets clicking in the stubble;Apples reddening on the trees—Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double;That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”

“That north forty must look pretty,

Head high, now, and ears all set;

And the haystacks in the meadow—

Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet?

Crickets clicking in the stubble;

Apples reddening on the trees—

Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double;

That’s not gas that made me sneeze.”

Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still,At the end of a village street;The sunset red on the woods ahead,And a sentry on his beat.The hour chimes from the ancient spire,A child laughs out below,And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies,Behold, in the afterglow,

Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still,

At the end of a village street;

The sunset red on the woods ahead,

And a sentry on his beat.

The hour chimes from the ancient spire,

A child laughs out below,

And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies,

Behold, in the afterglow,

Row on row of smoking chimneys,Long steel roofs and swinging cranes,Maze of tracks and puffing engines,Creeping strings of shunted trains,Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses,Lots, with brick and lath piled high;Whips of shade trees by the curbings,Yellow trolleys clanging by.

Row on row of smoking chimneys,

Long steel roofs and swinging cranes,

Maze of tracks and puffing engines,

Creeping strings of shunted trains,

Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses,

Lots, with brick and lath piled high;

Whips of shade trees by the curbings,

Yellow trolleys clanging by.

These are tawdry thoughts in an epic timeFor martial souls to own?They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend,That are bred of our blood and bone.A mustard shell it is very well,And an egg grenade’s O.K.,But we get our steam from our little dreamOf the good old U.S.A.

These are tawdry thoughts in an epic time

For martial souls to own?

They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend,

That are bred of our blood and bone.

A mustard shell it is very well,

And an egg grenade’s O.K.,

But we get our steam from our little dream

Of the good old U.S.A.

Cotton fields along the river,Night lights streaming from a mill;Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver,Dump cars lining out a fill;Presses roaring in a basement,Woods, with waters gleaming through—Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go thereWhen we’ve rid the world of you!Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A.

Cotton fields along the river,

Night lights streaming from a mill;

Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver,

Dump cars lining out a fill;

Presses roaring in a basement,

Woods, with waters gleaming through—

Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go there

When we’ve rid the world of you!

Joseph Mills Hanson, Capt., F.A.

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