Oh, I’m sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go,
    And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know,
    But the boy that she’s so fond of has a life to live on earth,
    And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth. 
    He will sicken and grow timid, he’ll be flesh without a heart
    Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn’t do his part.

Have you kept him, gentle mother?  Has he lost his old-time cheer? 
Is he silent, sad and sullen?  Are his eyes no longer clear? 
Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong? 
Then a secret grief he’s nursing and I’ll tell you what is wrong. 
All his comrades have departed on their country’s noblest work,
And he hungers to be with them—­it is not his wish to shirk.

         Fly a Clean Flag

This I heard the Old Flag say
As I passed it yesterday: 
“Months ago your friendly hands
Fastened me on slender strands
And with patriotic love
Placed me here to wave above
You and yours.  I heard you say
On that long departed day: 
’Flag of all that’s true and fine,
Wave above this house of mine;
Be the first at break of day
And the last at night to say
To the world this word of cheer: 
Loyalty abideth here.’

    “Here on every wind that’s blown,
    O’er your” portal I have flown;
    Rain and snow have battered me,
    Storms at night have tattered me;
    Dust of street and chimney stack
    Day by day have stained me black,
    And I’ve watched you passing there,
    Wondering how much you care. 
    Have you noticed that your flag,
    Is to-day a wind-blown rag? 
    Has your love so careless grown
    By the long neglect you’ve shown
    That you never raise your eye
    To the symbol that you fly?”

    “Flag, on which no stain has been,
    ’Tis my sin that you’re unclean,”
    Then I answered in my shame. 
    “On my head must lie the blame. 
    Now with patriotic hands
    I release you from your strands,
    And a spotless flag shall fly
    Here to greet each passer-by. 
    Nevermore shall Flag of mine
    Be a sad and sorry sign
    Telling all who look above
    I neglect the thing I love. 
    But my Flag of faith shall be
    Fit for every eye to see.”

         To a Kindly Critic

If it’s wrong to believe in the land that we love
And to pray for Our Flag to the good God above;
If it’s wrong to believe that Our Country is best;
That honor’s her standard, and truth is her crest;
If placing her first in our prayers and our song
Is false to true reason, we’re glad to be wrong.

If it’s wrong to wish victory day after day
For the troops of Our Country now marching away;
If it’s wrong to believe they are moved by the right
And not by the love and the lure of the fight;
If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong
Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong.