CAMOUFLAGE ALL!

THE war has developed a singular art,
The scenery painter's special part;
Deceiving, concealing beneath his paint,
Making things look like what they ain't,
Buildings and wagons and cannon, too,
He mottles and hides from the searching view
Of airplanes that hover in white nuages ---
That's what the French call "camouflage."

By a similar process my lady dips
Her brush to redden her faded lip,
For this the broker waters his stocks;
Cigars have pictures upon the box;
The politician's broad black hat,
Most of his speeches for the matter of that;
Sand in the sugar, water in milk,
The plain girl's stockings, made of silk,
Lovers' kisses and timid looks,
The lawyer's impressive shelf of books,
Comic sheets in the doctor's room,
Compliments carved on the dead-beat's tomb,
All that we say from birth to death,
A spearmint flavor on a beery breath,
Pomp and glory and wealth and fame,
The great reputation of What's-His-Name,
Even the night bell on the garage ---
Every damn bit of it "camouflage"!!!

            C'EST ÇA

    I'VE been roosting over where
    They've a sentence, "C'est la guerre,"
That you hear reiterated o'er and n'er.
It's a cheerful little thing,
    Hopeful and inspiriting,
And, translated into English, means
               "That 's war."

    When everything you see
    Is as rotten as can be,
When life's a shaky gamble or a bore,
    You'll derive great consolation
    From that patent observation,
For it's comforting to know it ---
                That it's war.

    You tote a gun and pack,
    Rain a-trickling down your back,
And you sleep in some damp dug-out on the floor,
    And you wake alive with fleas, ---
    Don't get irritated, please;
Just remember that it isn't sport---
                It's war.

    You must live on rancid grub,
    And they curse you for a dub,
Or rout you out to do some filthy chore,
    And you have n't had a bath
    For a month, --- restrain your wrath,
And repeat that everlasting phrase,
               "That 's war."

    If you're like the cheerful French,
    When the Boches strafe your trench
And you see your comrades slaughtered by the scum,
    You can get much satisfaction
    From that obvious abstraction,
And you'll simply shake your head and say,
                "That 's war."

    And there is no more to tell
    When you've found that war is hell
(I think I've heard that said somewhere before);
    If you're in it, you poor duffer,
    Then you'll have to grin and suffer
In the flames of hell --- I'm telling you ,
                 "That 's war!"

            CIVIL LIFE

WE'RE used to the ways of the soldier man,
Moving, existing as best he can,
We 're used to the obus, and first-line trench,
And the smoking stove and rickety bench;
We 're accustomed to sleeping in our clothes
In barracks cold as the arctic snows,
And wading in mud up to our knees,
Wearing those dog-goned roll puttees:
We're used to all the government things
Which the Q. M. drags in or the postman brings ---
These, and all of this comfortless life
That's caused by Wilhelm's desire for strife.

We 're used to it, yes, but what of the day
When we'll be (thank God!) out of government pay ---
When once more we'll return to civil pursuits,
Far from bawling commands and salutes?
How will we take it? ---it sure seems queer
To contemplate it from 'way out here --
Civilian clothes, thin socks, low shoes;
Being able to wear whatever you choose;
Neckties and collars, a clean white shirt;
Showers, and bathtubs, and none of this dirt;
Theatres, street-cars, and fine hotels;
Housemaids and servants and front-door bells;

Carpets, pianos, and furnace heat;
Sleeping on something called a sheet;
Ham and eggs, butter, and real white flour;
Getting up for breakfast at any old hour;
But, best of all in this life of ease,
Being able to do just as you please,
Telling corporal, lieutenant, and general, too,
To go to hell if it pleases you;
Far from all military guff,
Reasonless orders and all of that stuff---
In fact, just being, once again,
Civilians ---or better, just free men!

            ENVOI

How will it be --- I must stop, I fear,
For our corporal's bawling voice I hear---
(That officious fool, it's his belief
He's a cross between God and Commander-in-Chief).

        C'EST DÉFENDU

      You oft see a sign in France
      With the little word Défense,
Which, translated, means "Forbidden" over here.
      You will see this little sign
      When you think or when you dine,
Yet it never gives the poilus any fear.

      It's Défense d'Entrer when
      You want a drink before it's ten,
And Défense to sell a brandy there at all,
      But you just go to the rear,
      Say a word in Madam's ear,
And you're in the place and served with trouble small.

      It's Défense de Doubler ---Passer
      All along the main highway,
But the gendarme never throws you in the pen
      He just lets you pass on by,
      Only sees with half an eye.
While he shrugs his shoulders saying, "Ce n'est rien."

      Oh, the poilus bear the brunt
      When they 're working at the front;
And they get but little pleasure from the game:
      And the principal of these ---
      When the word Défense he sees,
He goes right ahead and does it just the same.

      THE SONG OF THE CASUALTY LIST

IF you think that this war is all cheering and song,
If you think it's a frolic that shouldn't be missed,
      It won't be so long
      Till you'll find you are wrong
By the long string of names on the casualty list.

The casualty list, the casualty list,
The dead and the wounded, the missing and missed
      The fellows who laughed
      On the day of the draft,
Their names will go down on the casualty list!

The private who dreamed of an immortal fame
In a charge when he got a wound on the wrist,
      He turned up his toes
      While blowing his nose,
And down went his name on the casualty list.

The casualty list, the casualty list,
The dead and the wounded, the missing and missed
      The cross that he won
      Was a small wooden one
Inscribed with the name that went down on the list.

There's no one too lowly, and no one too proud
To be classed with the dead and the wounded and missed,
      It's neither exclusive
      Nor yet too obtrusive -
All names are alike on the casualty list.

The casualty list, the casualty list,
It follows wherever the bullet has hissed,
      And there's always a place
      For your name or your face
In the infinite ranks of the casualty list.

        HAND GRENADES

THERE are many things of interest
    Around this little war,
And often by experiment
    You find out what they're for;
But there's one thing, if you monkey,
    You won't live to be afraid,
It's that harmless-looking plaything ---
        The Hand Grenade!

They're an innocent young handful,
    And oft the rookies start,
With a hammer and a monkey wrench
    To take them all apart.
Then occurs a loud explosion,
    And then we all give aid
To find where he was scattered by
        The Hand Grenade!

I was just like all the green guys
    On coming to the front---
I picked them up and brought them in
    And thought it quite a stunt.
Later on, when they exploded,
    I learned to be afraid.
To lose your friends, just monkey with
        The Hand Grenade!

Now when some green guy brings one in,
    Just as a souvenir,
I do not stay to cuss him out,
    But merely disappear;
When it goes off we'll merely say,
    When to his rest he's laid,
"Poor fool, he got his playing with
        A Hand Grenade!"

        A REALLY QUIET DAY

"DEAR Folks At Home: --- I am quite well,"
    Wrote Sergeant William Jones,
"My health is good, our feed is fine,
    As yet I've broke no bones.

"We're in the first-line trenches now
    To do a two weeks' bit;
But things are tranquil, and we're sure
    Of never getting hit.

"For the Boche he does n't strafe us much,
    Though we give him all Hector.
For him it's just continued hell;
    For us, a quiet sector!

"So do not worry; I'm quite safe
    Down in my shelter here.
It's really no more dangerous
    Than somewhere in the rear."

So was writing Sergeant William Jones
    When an obus came his way,
And blew things up quite fearfully
    For such a quiet day.

The Sergeant, cursing fluently,
    Got into quite a rage,
For the shell had spattered mud upon
    His neatly pencilled page.

"---- ---- these shells," the Sergeant said,
    "They sure do get my goat!"
That's what he said up in that trench,
     (But it isn't what he wrote!)

                WAR'S ANNOYANCES

THE annoyances of soldiers are supposed, in civil life,
To be the shells and bullets and the sounds of endless strife
They think he gets quite weary of the trenches and the guns
And the water and the trench raids, and the sniping of the Huns;
But were truth known, it is n't so ---- the front's a peaceful place,
And the soldier's real annoyance is the back home populace.

It's good old men who send him books of firm and helpful hints,
And tracts on keeping well and strong, and how to do up splints;
It's parsons who will pray for him, and send trench Bibles, too,
And silly girls he never met who write him billets-doux;
It's men who've not enlisted who always wish that he,
If he runs across a German, "would give him hell for me!"

The romantic ladies pleading," Oh, you will be such a dear,
Now get a Boche spiked hat for me, just as a souvenir!"
The man who writes, "Be sure and Kan the Kaiser while you're there"
(He sends this warlike message from his office swivel chair) ;
It's people safely back at home who always sternly write,
"The country hasn't wakened to the fact we're in the fight!"

They're nothing new, these pesterers of honest soldier folk,
But just the same ones, now transformed, who always will provoke --
Here's just the same old pastor, with his droning parish call,
And the gossiping old neighbor, with her tales beneath her shawl;
The doctor, and the lawyer, and the man who wanted war,
(And who pleaded his exemption so that he could run his store!)
Here's the meddler and the loafer and the boring family friend,
And the silly débutante who chatters nothing hours on end;
The gusher of the tea-room now is hunting souvenirs,
The "Ladies' Temperance Circle" is still down on wines and beers!
All, all are hers --- they're mobilized to help to win the war,
They'll "do their bit back there at home," though Heaven knows what for!
The soldier twice is bothered---both in front and in the rear,
And the latter 's most annoying, say the soldier men out here!

                            THE POILUS

THEY are n't so much to look at in their clothes of failed blue,
    And with all their kits and traps they would n't pass a stiff review;
They look at rules and regulations with only half an eye,
    And the gendarmes set to watch them turn their backs and let them by
They 're a slender, moustached bunch of men, and little every one,
    But for all of their appearance they're a match for any Hun!

Oh, the Poilus, the Poilus, with their guns upon their back,
    Every time they've met the Hun they've given him the sack;
When hell is popping on the front, no matter how or where,
    You will find that it's the Poilus who are sticking it, out there.

When Joffre said, "We'll hold the Marne," they gave the Germans hell;
    Then they knocked the spots from Fritzy down along the Somme as well;
Along the Aisne they set to rout the Kaiser's Prussian Guard,
    And they broke up his return attacks and whipped him yard by yard;
When Pétain said, "They shall not pass," before that hell, Verdun,
    They stuck it and they proved to be a match for any Hun!

Oh, the Poilus, the Poilus, with their guns upon their back,
    They 've done the job up thoroughly, defending or attack;
It makes no difference what the work, it makes no matter where,
    You will find that it's the Poilus who are sticking it, out there.

In Belgium or in Alsace, or down along the Aisne,
    At Verdun, or at Craonne, or down in the Champagne,
Take them in artillery, or take them in the tanks,
    Or take them in the aeroplanes, or take them in the ranks, --
Anywhere along the line, --- they're scrappers every one,
    And they've fought it out and proved it, for they've cleaned up on the Hun!

Oh, the Poilus, the Poilus, with their guns upon their back,
    They are n't so very showy, but they've got the soldier's knack;
In summer heat or winter snow, or in the star-shell's flare,
    It will always be the Poilus who will stick it out, out there!

            OUR SENSE OF FUN

THIS war would be extremely drear
    If we had not long since begun
To view events that happen here
    Transfigured by our sense of fun.

For many daily incidents
    To which we have been used,
Replete with humor quite immense,
    Occur to keep the men amused.

Why, almost every single day
    Some one is either killed or maimed
In some excruciating way ---
    Or maybe permanently lamed.

Just take, for instance, when last week
    Our raiders, fooled by some mirage,
Too soon dashed forward like a streak
    And ran into their own barrage.

When Smith, to show that he was calm,
    Went on a sapping expedition,
They blew him skyward with a bomb ---
    Or with some other ammunition.

That don't compare with when we read,
    As oft we do these cheerful days,
How bombing planes have sown their seed
    On citizens and embusqués!

We pray that this philosophy
    Continues as it was begun,
And thank whatever gods may be
    For giving us our sense of fun.

And yet not one among the lot,
    E'en as he laughs at some poor bloke,
But fondly hopes that he is not
    To be the point of the next joke!

                        NORTHWARD HO!

"An Arctic explorer recently returned to London states that the Esquimaux do not know that the war is going on." --- New York Herald.)

AT last the perfect resort has been found,
A place where of war there is no sound,
No talk that's gone on for three years now
Whether "Willy" or "Nicky" started the row
"Kan the Kaiser," "Pas bonne la guerre, "
Or of prices raised on the daily fare ---
Things just go on as they always go,
And he's quite content, is the Esquimo.

No "Belgian Relief" or "Orphan Days"
Have disturbed his peaceful, placid ways;
He never read headlines about the strife
Or saw the Kaiser cartooned in "Life."
He never saw all this "camouflage" sham,
Or read a Hindenburg telegram.
In fact, up there in the Arctic snow,
He's really quite happy, --- the Esquimo.

War news, autocracies, a peace that is just,
Gott, the Kaiser, Bethman-Hollweg's crust,
Cannons, machine guns, the obus's whine,
The rocking-chair patriot's militant line,
Trenches, aeroplanes, "No Man's Land " . . .
None of these things have disturbed his band.
Slothful and soft, in peace they grow,
But they quite enjoy life, do the Esquimaux!

They've never been fooled by the popular craze
Of hunting for news in communiqués.
In conscription and censors they have yet to see
The perfection of world-wide democracy.
They were never inspired, nor had they the chance
To start up an "Esquimaux Ambulance."
Yes, in spite of the ice and snow,
They are not badly off --- the Esquimaux!

                "CAPOUT"

You may think that fame immortal
    May be garnered from the war,
If by daring deeds you're finished
    So that you exist no more.
But you'll find that you are also
    One whom Fame will give the boot,
For all they'll say where you are done
    Will simply be---
            "Capout!"

Daring privates volunteering
    To pull some fancy
Often think their show of bravery
    Will give their rep a puff.
But they'll find, when they are potted
    That nobody gives a hoot:
They'll be turned under like the rest
    And mentioned as--- -
            "Capout!"

When the daring aviator
    On his first trip at the front
Tries to equal famous Guynemer
    In a very reckless stunt,
The Boche will dip and get him
    And he'll land upon his snoot,
And those watching will not sorrow,
    But will merely say--
            "Capout!"

At the front there is no weeping,
    And for the dead no fame,
And before your own fine doings
    There were thousands just the same.
If you plan to be Immortal,
    Just remember, you galoot,
They'll forget your name and doings
    When you're just a plain
            "Capout!"

                ALLIES

Two guns were resting side by side,
    Two guns of very different spans,
A monster cannon, gaping wide,
    The other just a soixante quinze.

The mighty railroad gun was proud ---
    He was the latest great invention:
He held himself above the crowd,
    Nor to it paid the least attention.

"Bonjour," the soixante- quinze remarked,
    You are a stranger hero, I see.
I'm glad to see that you've embarked
    To help us save democracy."

The, Big Gun turned an icy stare
    Upon the impudent recruit.
He said, "Come to attention, there!
    And also --- fire me a salute!"

"Say!" cried the little fellow then.
    ''Whom do you think you're talking to?
Don't try to pull that stuff again;
    You've yet to find out who is who.

"We've done without you up till now;
    I'd like to ask you, just for fun,
Who won the Marne and saved the row?
    And who it was that held Verdun?

"Because you're always in the rear
    And throw three tons of steel away,
You never have the slightest fear-
    You great big noisy embusqué!"

The Big Gun flashed an angry frown
    And rolled off with a vicious snort,
Remarking, "I shall mark you down
    Upon my very next report!"

And so, although against the Huns
    They fight to further the same plans,
All soixante-quinzes despise Big Guns,
    And Big Guns hate the soixante-quinzes.

THE EMBUSQUÉ IN PEACE AND WAR

ALL men have been sorted these warlike days
Into various species of embusqués.
Safe in the rear they're supposed to lurk,
Missing their share of the dirty work
And each is condemned by the critical view:
What the other man thinks he ought to do.
Thus embusqués are diverse and many.
Though by this rule there are hardly any
To the fellow at home or around that region,
To the man in the trench their name is legion!

Artillerymen, doctors, brancardiers,
Ambulance-drivers, infirmiers;
Those in the service behind the line;
The soldiers campaigning in Palestine;
Hospital units, men of munitions:
Those who hold down the soft positions;
The ones who by constant vertebral wear
Erase the plush from a cushioned chair;
The voluble statesman and his backer:
Clean on down to the just plain slacker.
Our backward friend of the physically fit,
Who talks and talks about 'doing his bit.'
Each is accused through the endless list
Till all of them hop on the pacifist!

The name is new, but what's a name?
We've had them among us just the same,
And shall have when we've finished the strife---
The embusqués of civilian life.
There'll be plenty of indigent nabobs
Who might be working at honest jobs:
That proverbial fellow, the gentile bum,
Who hits it high on his dad's income,
The society beau, and the suave head waiter,
The capitalist and the speculator,
All of the lichens of every trade,
The travelling companion, the lady's maid,
The free-lunch baler in the saloon,
And th' inevitable brush-broom coon---
All doing nothing in manifold ways,
Every last one of them embusqués!

                    AVIATION

You don't mean to say you don't feel it --
    The urge to be up in the air,
To swoop and to dip and to wheel it,
    Like that boy in the Spad over there?

I tell you there 's no life to match it
    You live well--- in comfort and ease.
In the army---perhaps you don't catch it!
    In the air you can do as you please.

There's no one can give you an order,
    When you're up there alone in the sky.
You can fight, or else light for the border,
    And either you do or you die.

On leave you can swank it and swagger ---
    You're always dressed up fit to kill.
You can walk with a strut or a stagger;
    You've entrée wherever you will.

You've excitement and chance for advancement
    And honor---and that's the plain truth.
What need of further enchantment?
    It's the game of all others for youth!

                    TO FRITZ

        You are not so bad a fellow
            When we take you one by one,
        You 've got a fair amount of "guts,"
            Judging all the things you've done.
        We admit you're quite a soldier---
            If you've officers a score---
        And the fights you've made against us
            Sure have made us pretty sore.
But for all your mailed-fist soldiering, you were never in the rank
Of the Scotchman or Canadian, the Poilu or the Yank!

        You've a brainy bunch of generals,
            Although the brainy work they've done
        Has brought about but little else
            Than giving you the name of "Hun."
        You're an awkward sort of person,
            But your science sure is fine;
        It's the truth, and we admit it,
            It is hard to break your line.
But for all your fancy science, you are n't in the fighting rank
Of the Anzas or Canadian, the Poilu or the Yank!

        You sure can land an awful punch,
            You face your danger like a man,
        You try your best to win the war,
            And yet you never somehow can.
        You 've had us oft at fearful odds.
            And yet the Marne has told its tale;
        You did your damndest at Verdun,
            And yet your efforts only fail:
The secret, Fritz, is simply this---you are n't in the fighting rank
Of our Anzac, or our Scotty, or our Poilu, or our Yank!

            "LA BELLE MUSIQUE"

EACH kind of a shell has a song of its own
    It invariably chants on its long arching flight,
From the time it ascends with a whimpering drone
    To the hair-raising scream when it starts to alight.
If the tune is prolonged, then everything's well
    You know it's not you it is coining to see
But listen a bit, you can easily tell,
    What sort of a guest it is going to be.

There's the ping of the bullet, the gas-shell's thump,
    And the zoo-bum-bang! of the "grosse marmite";
There's the muffled thud of the harmless "dud"
    That fails at your very feet,
There 's the obus' zoo-oo-no: ker-RUMP!
    The whiz of the "&lat," and wicked whirrs
Of the shrapnel-burst; but the very worst
    Is the tac-tac-tac of the "mitrailleuse."

Each kind of a gun takes a part in the show
    With its songs and its solos all marked on the score,
The rifles sing treble, the cannon take low
    In that Wagneresque comedy-opera, War
But when it commences that ominous sound,
    Be the audience German, or if it be Ally,
It frankly retires and stays underground
    From overture to the last grand finale.

There's the ping of the bullet, the gas-shell's
    And the zoo-bum-bang ! of the "grosse marmite"
There's the muffled thud of the harmless "dud,"
    If the music's quite complete,
There's the obus' zoo-oo-oo: ker-RUMP!
    The whiz of the " éclat," and wicked whirrs
Of the shrapnel-burst; but the worst of all
    Is the tac-tac-tac of the "mitrailleuse."

        THE SOLDIERS CREED

CUT out your mournful talk of death,
    And play your gayest tune;
Bring out your jokes and laughs and jests,
And stop your thoughts of last bequests,
    Be it over late or soon.

Sing all the songs we used to know,
    And the ragtime with a swing;
Take out your black-gloved mourning folk;
They don't know life is just a joke.
    Who cares what luck may bring?

We want to whistle while we march,
    And when the front is hell;
If we are hit, why, we are hit;
Your worry will not help a bit,
    Or keep away a shell.

For the soldier's life is a careless life
    We pass our troubles by;
We smile beneath our crabs alight
And grin at all the Boche's fight
    And let the minutes fly.

So don't bring ne your arguments,
    And tell ne who's to blame;
If we're in war, why, we're in war;
We don't care what we're fighting for,
    We're here to play the game.

So bring on smokes, and bottles old,
    And fill the wine-cups up;
For we should worry what's to come;
As long as we can get our rum,
    Forget old Bertha Krupp!

So don't tell us our chance of death;
    We'll keep our eye on life;
But come and have a smile with us,
And josh and joke awhile with us ----
    And let's forget the strife.

                PERMISSION

TIME was when I honestly longed for the day
    That we'd go to the front for some action.
I was then a recruit --- a poor simple galoot -
    And was ripe for a row or a ruction.
But now---well, it's different; I've had quite enough
    Of this damnable war of perdition;
I don't fall no more for this patriot stuff ---
    All I want is to go on permission!

At first I was keen to be risking my life ---
    To go over the top and attack:
I was n't dismayed at the thought of a raid
    When the most of us wouldn't come back;
But now, when they call for a few volunteers
    To go out on a bomb expedition,
The others respond, while I join in the cheers ---
    For the time's getting near to permission!

It was not long ago that I used to have hopes
    That I'd get a promotion and such;
But six weeks of trenches, their filth and their stenches,
    Ain't made me repine for it much.
Ambition sinks low in the face of war's taunts;
    Get away with your lousy commission!
There's only one thing that a soldier man wants:
    Let me get out of here---on permission!

            OVERCOATS OF BLUE

        You may tack on fuss and feathers
            And plumes and golden braid,
        Or choose a gorgeous uniform,
            As striking as is made
        Dress your soldiers as you like,
            But still it will be true,
        You'll have to take your hat off
            To the Overcoats of Blue!

Oh, the Overcoats of Blue! The Overcoats of Blue!
They're soldiers of the finest, are the Overcoats of Blue!

        You may take your men in khaki,
            Your men in brown and grey,
        They're first-class fighting soldiers -
            They'll prove it any day!
        We'll honor every one of them
            For all that they've been through,
        But you'll have to give the laurels
            To the Overcoats of Blue

Oh, the Overcoats of Blue! The Overcoats of Blue!
They're the finest fighting soldiers, are the Overcoats in Blue!

        When this war is done and finished,
            We'll have a grand parade,
        And to all the Allied soldiers
            Will honor due be paid;
        But you'll see, in all their glory,
            At the head of the review,
        Just the ordinary poilus ---
            The Overcoats of Blue!
The Overcoats of Blue! The Overcoats of Blue!
They will march before the finest, will the Overcoats of Blue!

            FOR FRANCE TO-DAY

WHY do we fight, we from a distant shore,
Removed, contained, scarce touched by all the strife,
Far from the thunders of a foreign war,
Who might in peace have followed all our life?
Our debt to France?---incurred in times of old,
Graced by the workings of a despot king?---
Rochambeau, Lafayette, we oft are told;
Our hell of freedom which they helped to ring --
No, none of these; forget the ancient score;
A greater thing: --- for France to-day, we fight;
Our living debt to France is even more;
Her struggling battle is our cause of right.
For fine-tooled France, a star too bright to go,
We come to battle back the tyrant foe!

        TOUJOURS LA FRANCE!

PERHAPS, if you've read these effusions,
    And found them imprudently packed
With a lot of irreverent allusions
    Surprisingly wanting in tact,
You'll think we are blind to all virtues, ---
    Just cynics a-warming the bench,---
But before it 's too late, let us hasten to state --
    Thank God, we've been with the French!

As soldiers, it's only verbose to repeat
    Their praise in these doggerel tunes:
The ace among nations we'd hail, were it meet,
    From a couple of bum buffoons;
Their manners, their ways of expressing themselves,
    Their courage which nothing can quench ---
The humanest lot that were ever begot --
    Thank God, we are with the French

America's long preparations are done
    And her aid is beginning to count,
And because of her efforts the war will be won
    Or to that it is going to amount.
But in spite of our power, resources, and wealth,
    When it conies to the last final wrench,
The victorious Yanks, from command to the ranks,
    Will thank God they're with the French

                      ENVOI

WE have written our joys and our sorrows
    And our jests that have passed off the time;
We have given no care for to-morrows,
    Nor bothered with thoughts in our rhyme;
We've sung as we've talked in the barracks,
    And at poste 'round the grey ambulance,
But back of the chaff, and the jest, and the gaff
    Is the feeling we have---for France!

Oh, we most of us came for the reason
    Of adventure or playing the game,
Or of doing our duty in season,
    Or of leaving a life that was tame;
But we 'ye done that, and now we've new reason,
    Artillery, tanks, ambulance---
If they'd let us go 'way, we would most of us stay
    And stand by the battle --- for France!

Oh, it isn't in words that we show it,---
    They're too feeble to tell what we feel;
It's down in our hearts that we knew it,
    It's down in our souls that it's real.
So we stick to our work as we find it,
    And forget the caprices of Chance,
For we know that the price of the big sacrifice
    Is little enough ---for France!

Slacker, loafer, or, as the French say, one who is hiding himself in the bushes. Every one in the war zone thinks every one else is really an embusqué, and is convinced that his own work is the most difficult and dangerous. B. C. Wohlford's poem "The Slacker" aptly sums up the situation:

        THE SLACKER

Says the man engaged in business
    To the man who haunts his club.
Oh, you slacker, start producing,
    Whip the Kaiser, and his sub.

While the army clerk in Paris
    Adding figures in a chair.
Types his friends, "Come, don't be slackers;
    Go enlist; get over there."

And his farmer comrade grumbles
    As he steers his ambulance,
"Yellow slacker, back in Paris,
    He's the softest job in France."

Then his car rolls by some cannon,
    And the gunners all remark,
"What a smug contented slacker!
    Why, his job in just a lark!"

And the dirty, frozen poilu
    Flatly plodding from his trench,
Grunts, "Artillery, --- oh, what slackers.
    Far from mad, grenades, and stench!"

While the stalwart shock divisions
    Coming forward to attack
Sneer, "The ordinary poilus,
    It's a shame the way they slack,"

But the curse goes even farther,
    For the crews that man the tanks
Say, "Compared with us what slackers
    Are the men who fill the ranks!"

So, although you're quite heroic
    And your deeds are far from tame,
Don't be boastful, just remember
    You're a slacker all the same.

                        B. C. WOHLFORD
    From The American Field Service Bulletin