The rifle gripped in hands of steel, Where, flashing in the sun, Sweep on our blazing bayonets, The terror of the Hun.

THE BATTLE MOTHER.

Over the sodden trenches- Over the skirmish line- High o'er the hole-torn fields and roads Cometh a face to mine.

Under the burning gas attack, And the stench of the bursting sh.e.l.l, We hope we may live for her dear sake- She who would wish us well.

(She who has ever cherished us- But when the hour came Choked back the tears of the faithful years, As we left to play the game.)

Between the blazing horizons That hammer the long night through, Lapping their tongues of hatred- Fearless she comes to you.

And over the roar of battle Where the shrill-voiced shrapnel sings, Shine forth the loving eyes we hold Above all earthly things.

_A World run mad with slaughter- A charnel-house of blood- But the face of the Battle Mother Above the crimson flood._

SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1917.

_The drafted men fought hard and well, The whole big army did, But we prefer the spirit Of the Bayard and the Cid._

The drafted men fought hard and well, But when Jack sailed for France, They didn't have to drag us in By the back of our neck and the seat of our pants.

The drafted men fought hard and well, But when it first began, From coast to coast, from Lakes to Gulf, We rose, a single man.

The drafted men fought hard and well, But when the days were black, Glad we sprang to the call to front The snarling, charging pack.

The red-fanged, savage hounds of hate, In a victor's drunken might: The unleashed, howling gray hordes Sweeping plain and height.

The drafted men fought hard and well, But when the great floes pressed, Came we to break the ice and clear A channel for the rest.

The drafted men fought hard and well, But now the thing is o'er, We 're glad we came the way we came When the Nation rose to war.

The drafted men fought hard and well, But now the thing is done, We're glad we came the time we came In the heyday of the Hun.

Shades of Patrick Henry- Of Washington and Hale, G.o.d grant we've kept the trust-G.o.d grant The Old Guard shall not fail.

_The drafted men fought hard and well, The whole vast army did, But we prefer the spirit Of the Bayard and the Cid._

O. D.

_O. D., it_ ought _to mean Oh d.a.m.n,_ _When in the pay of Uncle Sam:_ _But when you hear the soldier blab_ _"O. D.," it just means Olive Drab._

The leggings, breeches and the boots Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots- The overcoats and jackets too, Confess the selfsame mournful hue.

It may be excellent camouflage To try to fool a young barrage; It may not show the bally dirt So much upon your knees and shirt.

It may be serviceable and such When you are beating-up the "Dutch;"

But from a calm esthetic point, The color's sadly out-of-joint.

A little mud on red or blue May seem quite prominent to you; But put the same upon O. D., And the whole blame thing looks mud to me.

But then, it matches trenches well, And things that make you say, Oh h.e.l.l For instance, hikes, inspections, drills, And busted arms with C. C. pills.

It makes you heave a sigh or two For the good old days of bra.s.s and blue; But if it's fit to beat the "Dutch"

I guess it doesn't matter much.

ARTILLERY REGISTERING.

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- My boy.

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench, Which means tonight they'll surely drench These works with sh.e.l.ls that burst and stench (And cloy).

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- My lad.

It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, And quite promiscuously around It showers metal on the ground (It's bad).

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- Recruit.

So do not stand and stupid stare Till some comes down and parts your hair, But hunt your dugout and beware (To boot).

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- Young man.

Which means tonight the gas sh.e.l.ls' thud Will m.u.f.fled fall like chunks of mud; And th' blinding, crashing Prince of Blood- The G. I. Can.

They're shooting shrapnel o'er the trench- My child.

And ere the dawn is turning gray- You mark the very words I say- There's going to be h.e.l.l to pay (High piled).

RECIPROCITY.