THE WOMAN’S PART.

Manawatu Standard, Volume XLI, Issue 10471, 8 September 1916, Page 7

THE WOMAN’S PART.

The following verses by J. E. MacManus arc from a paper called “.Blighty,” issued by the British Government for the troops; The boys in their khaki go out to the front. What are the women to do? They say, “Mon must work and women must weep.” Is that all that’s loft for you? Don’t believe it ; the hardest part, to play is tho part of the mothers and wives. To give your own life is a little thing; wo give you menfolk’s lives. The baby you’ve often scolded when you washed him and darned his socks. We’ve bred them, and roared them, and loved them, and it’s the women’s part To send them to (lie for England with a smile and a breaking heart. And we’ll do it: Oh, girls might trifle, in the careless days of pence, With the boy of tho seaside bandstand, his flannels without a crease. Wo might flirt, and kiss, and flutter —but the day tho war began We women had done with the loafer—what wo want to-day is a man. Tho man that will shoulder a rifle, and go out where the bullets fly, With his head held high, and a song on his lips, and a smile as he says good-bye. We’ll bid him God-speed and wish him good luck, and toll him he’s one of tho best.

i There’s no place for a girl in the Fighting line—but let this bo your woman’s plan, If we can’t enlist for service, wc can each of us send a man, If ho lags wake him up witli a scornful word: let him feel the lash of shame. Till you fire his soul to ardour, and kindle his blood to flame. Idol it be “hands off” for the sluggard; for the rut and the dapper’s joy. No smile and no kiss for the shirker; keep your lips for the soldier boy. Send your boy to the colours, mother; hand him his belt and gun It’s better to lose him nobly than to be ashamed of your son. When the work of the day is over, you can let yourself go and cry In the gloom of the desolate fireside in the dark when there’s nobody by. There isn’t a sock wants darning; there isn’t, a buy to scold For the cigarette ash on the. carpet—for the dinner they’ve let go cold. Their caps still hang on the hat stand, but there isn’t a step on the stair; There’s no gay young voice calling “Mother”; no sound for—for the boys aren’t there. That's the time you know Ihe anguish of the waiting woman’s part, f n the hush of the lonesome home it s the silence that tears your heart. Night passes; we’ll welcome the morning with u smile and steadfast will: If wc haven’t our boys to work for, well work for our country still. ISo glad that your men are fighters for tiio shame that hurts, Is to have a coward man —child, who hides behind women’s skirts. Just clench your tooth when you read the list of the wounded and the dead, And if the names that you love are there ■ bo proud and hold up your head. Don’t cry; for they’ve climbed the pathway that heroes and martyrs trod. They sleep in the Rest of Heaven; they stand in the Glory of God.