Patriotic pieces from the Great War. Edna D. Jones

he comes!

      ​Hail Columbia's sons are marching! Rich and poor alike are chums!

       They've been welded fast together by the magic of the drums!

      ⁠⁠By the drums!

      ⁠By the rat-tat-tat

      ⁠⁠Of drums!

      ⁠By the fiat flat

      ⁠⁠Of drums!

      ⁠By the glory that's surrounding

      ⁠Every deed of dogged pounding!

      ⁠Of the roll of honor sounding!

      ⁠⁠Of the drums!

      —Grif Alexander

      FOR FRANCE

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      FOR FRANCE

      Permission of the author

      She had been stricken, sorely, ere this came;

      ⁠And now they wrote that he, her boy, was dead—

      ⁠Her only one! Through blinding tears she read,

       Trying to see what followed his dear name.

      ⁠He had died "gloriously," the letter said,

       "Guarding the Tricolor from touch of shame

       Where raged the battle furious and wild."

      ⁠Catching her breath, she stayed despair's advance.

       She was a mother; but, besides—a child

      ⁠Of France!

       And after, though remembrance of past years

      ⁠Dulled not to her fond vision nor grew dim;

      ⁠Though every slightest incident of him

       Was treasured in her breast, she shed no tears.

      ⁠Her cup was full now, even to the brim,

       And for herself she knew nor hopes nor fears.

       So, toiling patiently, with noble pride

      ⁠And lifted head she met each pitying glance,

       She was the mother of a son who died—

      ⁠For France!

      —Florence Earle Coates

      NEXT YEAR

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      NEXT YEAR

      Permission of Everybody's Magazine, New York

      Up and down the street I know,

      ⁠Now that there is Grief and War

       All day long the people go

      ⁠As they went before;

       But when now the lads go by—

      ⁠Careless look and careless glance—

       My heart wonders—"Which shall be

      ⁠Still next year in France?"

       When the girls go fluttering—

      ⁠Flushing cheek and tossing head—

       My heart says "Next year shall bring

      ⁠Which a lover dead?"

       Lord, let Peace be kind and fleet—

      ⁠Put an end to Grief and War;

       Let them walk the little street

      ⁠Careless as before!

      —Margaret Widdemer

      THEN GIVE US WINGS

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      THEN GIVE US WINGS

      If wings will help our men to see

       Some Boche's belching battery,

       Unloosing from a screen of trees

       Its screeching death upon the breeze—

       Or help our giant guns to search

       With truer aim each hidden perch

       Of Teuton guns, and make them meek,

       Ere they again may chance to speak—

       If wings, O God, will do these things,

       Then give us wings.

       If great, destroying wings might stay

       Munitions in their hurried way,

       Or hold a reënforcement back

       By dropping ruin on its track,

       Or yet set free the pent-up hell

       Of depots filled with shot and shell,

       Or swiftly give eternal sleep

       To ships that prowl the nether deep—

       If wings, O God, will do these things,

       Then give us wings and still more wings.

       If fast, avenging wings might cast

       On German cities such a blast

       Of desolating death and pain

       ​As fell again and still again

       On England's homes—and thus awake

       The heart of pity—and so make

       An end to killing mothers, wives,

       And maiming helpless infant lives—

       If wings, O God, will do these things,

       Then give us wings, and wings and wings

       And still more wings.

       If dauntless, daring wings that dash

       O'er No-Man's Land, with shot and crash,

       Might beat back wings that would assail

       Advancing armies with their hail—

       If dauntless wings like these that ride

       O'er No-Man's Land, might turn the tide

       Of great offensive—bring about

       Allied success and Teuton rout—

       If wings, O God, will do these things,

       Then give us wings and wings and wings

       Devouring wings that cleave and soar,

       And yet more wings and more and more!

       If multitudes of wings might rise

       To blind aggression's lustful eyes,

       And render powerless every stroke

       That seeks to force the tyrant's yoke—

       If multitudes of wings might give

       ​Democracy a chance to live,

       And make this bloody carnage cease,

       And bring to earth a lasting peace—

       If wings, O God, will do these things,

       Then give us wings, and wings and wings,

       And still more wings arrayed to smite

       Till Vict'ry come—the hosts of light

       Beneath the sun, whose