It seems to me I’ve never tried
      To do so much about the place,
    Nor been so slow to come inside,
      But since I’ve got the Flag to face,
    Each night when I come home to rest
      I feel that I must look up there
    And say:  “Old Flag, I’ve done my best,
      To-day I’ve tried to do my share.” 
    And sometimes, just to catch the breeze,
    I stop my work, and o’er the trees
    Old Glory fairly shouts my way: 
    “You’re shirking far too much to-day!”

    The help have caught the spirit, too;
      The hired man takes off his cap
    Before the old red, white and blue,
      Then to the horses says:  “Giddap!”
    And starting bravely to the field
      He tells the milkmaid by the door: 
    “We’re going to make these acres yield
      More than they’ve ever done before.” 
    She smiles to hear his gallant brag,
    Then drops a curtsey to the Flag,
    And in her eyes there seems to shine
    A patriotism that is fine.

    ’We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm
      And flung Old Glory to the sky,
    We’re far removed from war’s alarm,
      But courage here is running high. 
    We’re doing things we never dreamed
      We’d ever find the time to do;
    Deeds that impossible once seemed
      Each morning now we hurry through. 
    The Flag now waves above our toil
    And sheds its glory on the soil,
    And boy and man look up to it
    As if to say:  “I’ll do my bit!”

         The Mother on the Sidewalk

The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by
Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky. 
Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright,
But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night;
’Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray
For the brave and loyal mother of the boy that goes away.

There are days of grief before her, there are hours that she will weep,
There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep;
She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test,
And has placed upon the altar of the nation’s need, her best. 
And no man shall ever surfer in the turmoil of the fray
The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.

You may boast men’s deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great,
But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait,
And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave
Who has given the Flag a soldier—­she’s the bravest of the brave. 
And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white
Is a lasting tribute holy to all mothers’ love of right.

         The Big Deeds