THE ARMY GROUCH

  When the Grouch gets up at reveille,
  He puts his elbow on his knee;
  His head upon his hand;
  And tho’ he’s slept ten hours or more,
  His back is weak, his feet are sore,
  And he can hardly stand. 
  And, as he goes to get his chow,
  He says, “By Gosh!—­I don’t see how
  A soldier lives so long. 
  The spuds is rotten and the slum
  Is always worse than on the bum. 
  The coffee is too strong. 
  That cow was killed ten years before
  They organized this bloomin’ war;
  These flapjacks taste like wood.” 
  And so he growls through all the day,
  And fills his comrades with dismay;
  They’d kill him if they could. 
  When “First Call” wakes up Billy Lott,
  He sits upon his Army cot,
  And whistles “Casey Jones,”
  And as he jumps into his shoes,
  He says, “By Jinks I’ve had a snooze
  That’s good for skin and bones.” 
  And Billy always has a smile
  That you can see for half a mile,
  And when he stops to say, ‘How Do!’
  He chases dimples to your cheeks
  That stay there for a couple of weeks,
  And he makes you happy too.

WEANING TIME

  (To A. W. D.)

  Mothers, O, ye mothers of the land! 
  With broods of sisters, brothers—­hand in hand—­
  ’Tis weaning time.  Clip ye the thread
  That apron-strings the lad!  Give him his head! 
  Pluck from your teat the clinging lip
  That should be tight with valor’s grip! 
  “You were my child-in-arms,” she said;
  “Suckled I you, and gave you bed;
  But now you are my man, my son. 
  For battle lost or battle won,
  Go, find your captain; take your gun,
  To stand with France against the Hun! 
  Reck not that tears might wet your crib;
  Nor fear my fondling of the bib
  You wore—­when you are gone. 
  Your mother will not be alone;
  Her love-mate will be Duty Done: 
  Her nights will kiss that midnight sun. 
  If tears?  They will be tears of Joy,
  For having milked a man, my boy. 
  Farewell and live, heart of my heart. 
  God steel my soul!  I bid you start! 
    He goes! 
    God knows
  I idol him.  And may no backward glance
  Unheart me now.  To France!  To France! 
  Fair France of La Fayette’s romance. 
  My man-in-arms advance, advance! 
  Take down your grand-sire’s crimsoned lance! 
  For man-wide Freedom and for France!”

  “Hands across the sea”

  We’re off for France to make “Fritz” dance
    To the tune of shot and shell. 
  We’ll march right in to old Berlin,
    And give the Kaiser hell.

  The French are right—­they’ll hold the fight,
    And British “drives” are fine;
  But Pershing’s boys will find but toys
    In the “Hindenberger” Line.