Patriotic pieces from the Great War. Edna D. Jones

When Josephus said that seamen might be brave, and still not curse.

       Never on the rolling ocean had men navigated ships

       Be the weather fine or dirty, without oaths upon their lips.

       Even Dr. Lyman Abbott had to pause and breathe a prayer

       ​For a man who said that sailors had not simply got to swear!

       And there swept across the Nation, North and South and East and West

       The unanimous conclusion that Josephus was a jest.

       But when Congress started peering into things that had to do

       With the arming of the warship and the comfort of the crew,

       When grave statesmen asked him questions as to this and as to that

       It was noticed that Josephus answered right straight off the bat.

       For his drinkless, curseless navy—every unit—thanks to him,

       From the dreadnoughts to the cutters, is in first-class fighting trim.

       Now at last the pitying jesters (we among them) see a light,

       For the fact has dawned upon us that Josephus is all right!

      —James Montague

      THE WOUNDED SOLDIER IN THE CONVENT

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      THE WOUNDED SOLDIER IN THE CONVENT

      What is that clanging noise I hear

      ⁠Through the still convent ringing?

       It is the carriage-ambulance

      ⁠A wounded soldier bringing.

       Upon his coat the blood-spots shine;

      ⁠He limps—a shell has caught him—

       His gun he uses for a crutch,

      ⁠Descending, to support him.

       A veteran he, with fierce moustache—

      ⁠The triple stripes he's wearing—

       All prudes and hypocrites he loathes,

      ⁠And starts by loudly swearing.

       Well-nigh insulting are his looks,

      ⁠With ill-bred gibes he rallies

       The novices—beneath their caps

      ⁠They blush at his coarse sallies.

       If at his side, thinking he sleeps,

      ⁠The sister breathes a prayer,

       Straightway astir he fills his pipe

      ⁠And whistles a bored air.

       What use to him their faithful watch,

      ⁠The care that never ceases?

       ​He knows his leg is lost and done,

      ⁠And he'll be hacked to pieces.

       He's very angry—Let him be!

      ⁠Here no one knows impatience,

       There reigns an atmosphere that soothes

      ⁠And cows the rudest patients.

       Slow is the spell, but sure, that wields

      ⁠This band, to service given,

       With fingers soft they touch the wounds,

      ⁠And softly speak of Heaven.

       So subtle is their pious charm,

      ⁠Our grumbler soon will see it

       In his own way—and to each prayer

      ⁠Make the response, "So be it!"

      —Francois Coppee

      HARVEST IN FLANDERS

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      HARVEST IN FLANDERS

      In Flanders' fields the crosses stand—

       Strange harvest for a fertile land!

       Where once the wheat and barley grew,

       With scarlet poppies running through.

       This year the poppies bloom to greet

       Not oats nor barley nor white wheat,

       But only crosses, row by row,

       Where stalwart reapers used to go.

       In Flanders' fields no women sing,

       As once they sang, at harvesting;

       No men now come with scythes to mow

       The little crosses, row by row.

       The poppies wonder why the men

       And women do not come again!

       In Flanders, at the wind's footfall,

       The crosses do not bend at all,

       As wheat and barley used to do

       Whenever wind went running through.

       The poppies wonder when they see

       The crosses stand so rigidly!

       O God, to whom all men must bring

       What they have done for reckoning,

       At harvest-time what byre or bin

       Have you to put these crosses in?

       ​What word for men who marched to sow

       Not wheat, but crosses, row by row?

       Alas! Our tears can never bring

       The men who came here harvesting

       And come no more! We do not know

       What way the singing women go,

       Their songs all still! But crosses stand

       Row after row in Flanders land!

      —Louise Driscoll

      HAY FEVER

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      HAY FEVER

      I do not wish the Kaiser ill,

       I wish him nothing that would kill,

       No bombs with neatness and dispatch

       To wipe him from life's kaffe klatch;

       No dagger thrust between his ribs,

       That would destroy His Royal Nibs;

       I would not have him swiftly die,

       That's much too good for such a guy;

       I only wish the Kaiser might

       Hay Fever get and get it right!

       I wish the Kaiser's royal nose

       Might know the woes my poor nose knows;

       I only wish his royal chest

       Might always feel a sore distress,

       As mine must feel until the day

       October's frost shall come our way.

       I wish the royal piece of cheese

       Might be forever doomed to sneeze.

       Death is too good for such a