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WAR VERSES

PRIDE. Proud? Because the old men gave you kindlv' hands at parting? Proud? Because the other lads were slow and put to shame? Proud? Because the lassies seemed so ready for sweet-hearting With a lad that goes in. khaki with a regiment to his name? Nay. Proud, because williin you there’s a patriot altar burning, That, makes you -seo the, little farms through eyes grown dim and wet! Proud that nothing matters—of your going or returning— If the homes of dear old Scotland may bo homes of freedom yet! —Will Ogilvfe. OF THE DEAD. What need to sing of war To -celebrate the dead? Above our praise they are, Their, own great word is said. And shall we mourn for them Who snatch that vivid wreath, And bring to craft and sham© The argument of death? For now, as is a flame, Made evident by night, Does Britain’s glorious name Resume its ancient light. And needs no breath of ours To fan the central heat That with its rage devours The tyrant in defeat. What need to sing of war To celebrate the dead? Above our praise they are, Their own great word is said. TIPPERARY A LA FRANGAISE. French soldiers on the march are growing quite as fond of ‘ Tipperary ’ as our own men. Here is the chorus of the popular song in French: C’est feres loin juequ’a Tipperary, Tres loin jusquo la; O’e'st tres loin jusqu’a Tipperary, Loin do mon amour la-ba-sl Au revoir, Piccadilly; Adieu, Leicester Square. C’est bien loin, tres loin vers Tipperary, A mon coeur ei cher! THE CANADIANS’ SONG. Even tho Canadians now in London have succumbed to the lilting charm of ‘lt’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ but for their needs they have altered the words somewhat :~ It’s a long trail to the Prairie, It’s a long way to go ; It's a long trail to tire Prairie, To the sweetest girl I know. Greetings, Piccadilly. What, oh! Leicester Square. It's a long, long way to the Prairie, But my heart’s right there. THE GATE OF HELL. (An Exploit of the Royal Engineers on the Aisne.) I was at Soisfions when the bridge was rained To check the onrushing Huns. The charge was laid, But on the layers such a hailstorm played. Not one survived. Forth ran a sapper, blind To all except the unlit fuse. Behind— Another and another, undismayed To see how all before him dropped—and stayed. Thli by eleven more dead, the path was lined. And still the twelfth ran on—till he, too, fell; But not before his hand had. found the train And fired it, just as the nest began liis race. For such is Britain 1 Even the Gate of Hell, If twelve should fail to stem, and twelve again, Another twelve would rush to fill their place. HANS OFF! “ Hands off our plates !’■' tho British, waiter cries ; Remove those suits, they cover German spies; Behind the backs of guests no more they 5 !! scoff— From Rite and Carlton goes the err, “‘HANS’off!” THE MARRIED WARRIOR. The bachelor ’e fights for on« As joyful as can be; But the married man don’t call it fun, Because ho fights for three— For ’e ’is 'lni an’ ’Er an’ It (Au’ Two an’ One makes Three), ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An V wants to go home to tea* —Kipling. THE CALAIS OF OUR ALLY, The Kaiser sings; Of all the towns that edge the coast Of Franco, I’d like to sally With all my mighty armies most To Calais, pretty Calais. If only I could reach that spot And feast my ores on Dover I A fleet of submarines Fvo got. To take my soldiers over. Then we’d haul down tho Union Jack And hoist the Gorman Vulture, And every English town wo’d sack To show our German culture'

A MARCHING SONG, We be three soldiers, time as gold—■ A Scot, a. Pat, and a Briton bold— And if it’s war, as we’ve been told, We'll fight our way to glory. To the fife and the drum we’ll march along. To the roll of the drum well tramp along. 1 And all the way we'll sing our song. Hurrah for the British soldier! The great fat Sauer-Krauts may try With their big guns to make us fly) But wore the boys to win or die, And fight our way to glory. To the fife and the drum well march along. To the mil of the drum, we’ll tramp along. And all the way we’ll sing our song, Hurrah for the British soldier! We'll give them a taste of Waterloo, Of Inkcrman and Blenheim, too, And every foe the day shall rue We fought our way to glory. To the life and the drum we’ll march along, To the roll of the drum we ll tramp along, And all the world shall hear our song, Three cheers for the British Army I —H. J. Blyth, Tauranga.

KAISER BILL. Who was it built a fleet That would kill Anything it chanced to meet’ Kaiser Bill. Who made his army corps Train, until He made them fit for war? Kaiser Bill. Who thought he’d give us all A surpnser? And make our Empire fall? Bill the Kaiser. Who thought he'd stab poor Franca With his dagger, And give the Rues no chance? Bill the bra.gger. Likewise the Belgians tread . Out of sight (Yet they walloped him instead)? Bill the ekite. Who yet will have to flee From the Tophet And the devils he sot free? Will the Prophet. Who will think the world too hot To admire it While he bellows : “ Oh, man Gott!” Bill the Pirate. L. L. Eyre, Hevonport (.Auckland).

K. OP K.’S NEW ARMY. Men of England, Men of Scotland, Men o® Ireland and of Wales! Men of all the mighty Empire where our British ensign «a.iTs! By the dreams which women fashion round their happiness on earth, We are proud that we have loved you, w® are proud we gave you birth. You are leaving home and pleasures, yc« are leaving wox'k and pay, You are hocking to the colors in youf hundreds every day! By the valiant hearts within you, by youf spirits brave and true, You have made ns proud of Britain, yol have made ns proud of you. Do you hear the women’s homage! Doea it beat into your heart, As we stand aside in silence, watching all we love depart? Though our eyes are dim with weeping, though our lips are dumb with pain, We are proud of you, we lore you—on oa® love there lies no stain. Had we held you back in weakness—won men’s words can work such shame — Pleading love of home and children, soiling thus our country’s fame, Could wo face the years that found us with our mankind by our side? Could we boar the stern accusing and the

scorn of those who died? Women’s souls shall march beside you.

women’s love shall hold you fast. While you light the light of honor till your triumph come at last. Then, since war is harsh and cruel —God be kind to women's pain!—■ Pride shall keep our hearts from breaking if you come not back again. —Margaret Peterson, in the ‘ Sphere.’ THE BLACKEST LIE. (The ‘Frankfurter Zeitung’ states that Belgium intrigued with England any France to drag"Gennany into war.) Big bully Belgium, Breathing blood and flame, Crafty as a serpent In a cunning game, Sent a note to England, Sent a note to Franee: “Let us crush the Fatherland While wc have the chance!’’ Poor little Germany, Gentle land of peace, Seeking the millennium. When armaments shall cease; Rather grieved than angry, Called her eons to fight To protect their Fatherland, As was only right. Hurry with the whitewash, Pour it out in streams! Bleached the, ravanged country, Louvain, Antwerp, Rheims! Belgium concocted war, Thus deserves her fate! That’s the blackest Teuton lie Published up to date. —Jessie Pope, in ‘ Daily Mail.’

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Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ESD19150116.2.12

Bibliographic details

WAR VERSES, Evening Star, Issue 15702, 16 January 1915

Word Count
1,335

WAR VERSES Evening Star, Issue 15702, 16 January 1915

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