wars for gain;
      In hate of crimes too black for printed page;
    In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant’s reign—­
    And crush forever all within his train. 
      Such hate shall be the glory of our age.

         General Pershing

He isn’t long on speeches.  At the banquet table, he
Could name a dozen places where he would much rather be. 
He’s not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review,
But he’s busy every minute when he’s got a job to do. 
And you’ll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square
For the glory of his country when his boys get over there.

He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France,
And he knows that he’s the leader of America’s advance,
And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail,
So he’s standing to his duty, for he isn’t there to fail. 
And you’ll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare,
And he’ll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there.

He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep
O’er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep,
And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers,
With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears. 
He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share,
And he’ll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there.

         The Better Thing

It is better to die for the flag,
For its red and its white and its blue,
Than to hang back and shirk and to lag
And let the flag sink out of view. 
It is better to give up this life
In the heat and the thick of the strife
Than to live out your days ’neath a sky,
Where Old Glory shall never more fly.

    The peace that we long for will be
      Far worse than the war that we dread
    If never again we’re to see
      The blue, and the white and the red
    Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies. 
    If ever the Stars and Stripes dies
    Or loses its lustre and pride,
    We shall wish in our souls we had died.

    It is better by far that we die
      Than that flag shall pass out of the world;
    If ever it ceases to fly,
      If ever it’s hauled down and furled,
    Dishonor shall stamp us with shame
    And freedom be naught but a name,
    And the few years of dearly-bought breath
    Will be filled with worse horrors than death.

         To a Lady Knitting

Little woman, hourly sitting,
Something for a soldier knitting,
What in fancy can you see? 
Many pictures come to me
Through the stitch that now you’re making: 
I behold a bullet breaking;
I can see some soldier lying
In that garment slowly dying,
And that very bit of thread
In your fingers, turns to red. 
Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow
Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.