Out there in the night they beg for death,
      Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,
    And it seems his jest to leave them breath
      For their pitiful pleas and sighs. 
    And I am here in my cozy room
      In touch with the joys of life,
    I am miles away from the fields of doom
      And the gory scenes of strife.

    I never have vainly called for aid,
      Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,
    I have marched with life in its best parade
      And never have seen its worst. 
    In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,
      And I think as the Flag I see
    How much of service from some it’s asked,
      How little of toil from me.

         A Father’s Thoughts

Because I am his father, they
Expect me to put grief away;
Because I am a man, and rough
And sometimes short of speech and gruff,
The women folks at home believe
His absence doesn’t make me grieve;
But how I felt, they little know,
The day I smiled and let him go.

    They little know the dreams I had
    Long cherished for my sturdy lad;
    They little guess the wrench it meant
    That day when off to war he went;
    They little know the tears I checked
    While standing, smiling and erect;
    They never heard my smothered sigh
    When it was time to say good-bye.

    “What does his father think and say?”
    The neighbors ask from day to day. 
    “Oh, he’s a man,” they answer then. 
    “And you know how it is with men. 
    But little do they ever say,
    They do not feel the self-same way;
    He seems indifferent and grim
    And yet he’s very proud of him.”

    Indifferent and grim!  Oh, heart,
    Be brave enough to play the part,
    Let not the grief in you be shown,
    Keep all your loneliness unknown,
    To you the women folks must turn
    For comfort when their sorrows burn. 
    You must not at this time reveal
    The pain and anguish that you feel.

    Oh, tongue, be silent through the years,
    And eyes, keep back always the tears,
    And let them never see or know
    My hidden weight of grief and woe. 
    Though every golden dream I had
    Was centered in my little lad,
    Alone my sorrow I must bear. 
    They must not know how much I care.

    Though women folks may talk and weep,
    A man, unseen, his grief must keep,
    And hide behind his smile and pride
    The loneliness that dwells inside. 
    And so, from day to day, I go,
    Playing the part of man, although
    Beneath the rough outside and grim,
    I think and dream and pray for him.

         The Waiter at the Camp

The officers’ friend is the waiter at camp. 
In the night air ’twas cold and was bitterly damp,
And they asked me to dine, which I readily did,
For at dining I’ve talents I never keep hid. 
Then a bright-eyed young fellow came in with the meat,
And straightway the troop of us started to eat.