You can be patient, brave and strong,
    And not complain when plans go wrong;
    You can be cheerful at your toil,
    Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil;
    You can encourage others who
    Have heavier, greater tasks to do;
    You can be loyal, not in creed
    Alone, but in each thought and deed;
    You can make sacrifices, too. 
    The country needs a man like you,

         A Creed

To keep in mind from day to day
That I’m a soldier in the fray;
That I must serve, from sun to sun,
As well as he who bears a gun
The flag that flies above us all,
And answer well my Country’s call.

I must not for one hour forget
Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt. 
‘Twas spotless on’ my day of birth,
And when at last I quit this earth
Old Glory still must spotless be
For all who follow after me.

    At some post where my work will fit
    I must with courage do my bit;
    Some portion of myself I’d give
    That freedom and the Flag may live. 
    And in some way I want to feel
    That I am doing service real.

I must in all I say and do
Respect the red, the white and blue’,
Nor dim with petty deeds of shame
The splendor of Old Glory’s fame;
I must not let my standards drag,
For my disgrace would stain the Flag.

         The Struggle

Life is a struggle for peace,
A longing for rest,
A hope for the battles to cease,
A dream for the best;
And he is not living who stays
Contented with things,
Unconcerned with the work of the days
And all that it brings.

    He is dead who sees nothing to change,
      No wrong to make right;
    Who travels no new way or strange
      In search of the light;
    Who never sets out for a goal
      That he sees from afar
    But contents his indifferent soul
      With things as they are.

    Life isn’t rest—­it is toil;
      It is building a dream;
    It is tilling a parcel of soil
      Or bridging a stream;
    It’s pursuing the light of a star
      That but dimly we see,
    And in wresting from things as they are
      The joy that should be.

         As It Looks to the Boy

His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay,
His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day,
His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride
And I think that she has lost him though she’s kept him at her side. 
Oh, I’m sorry for the mother, but I’m sorrier for the lad
Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad.

He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street,
He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another’s meet;
And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday,
Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way. 
He will never blame his mother, but when he’s alone at night,
His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn’t doing right.