Little mother, take the blessing
      Of a grateful nation’s heart;
    May the news that is distressing
      Never cause your tears to start;
    May there be no fears to haunt you,
      And no lonely hours and sad;
    May your trials never daunt you,
      But may every day be glad.

    Little Mother, could I do it,
      This my Christmas gift would be: 
    That he’d safely battle through it,
      This to you I’d guarantee. 
    And I’d pledge to you this morning
      Joys to banish all your cares,
    Gifts of gold and silver scorning,
      I would answer all your prayers.

         Ideals

Better than land or gold or trade
Are a high ideal and a purpose true;
Better than all of the wealth we’ve made
Is the work for others that now we do. 
For Rome grew rich and she turned to song
And danced to music and drank her wine,
But she sapped the strength of her fibres strong
And a gilded shroud was her splendor fine.

    The Rome of old with its wealth and wine
      Was the handiwork of a sturdy race;
    They builded well and they made it fine
      And they dreamed of it as their children’s place. 
    They thought the joys they had won to give,
      And which seemed so certain and fixed and sure,
    To the end of time in the world would live
      And the Rome they’d fashioned would long endure.

    They passed to their children the hoarded gold,
      Their marble halls and their fertile fields! 
    But not the spirit of Rome of old,
      Nor the Roman courage that never yields. 
    They left them the wealth that their hands had won,
      But they failed to leave them a purpose true. 
    They left them thinking life’s work all done,
      And Rome went down and was lost to view.

    We must guard ourselves lest we follow Rome. 
      We must leave our children the finer things. 
    We must teach them love of the spot called home
      And the lasting joy that a purpose brings. 
    For vain are our Flag and our battles won,
      And vain are our lands and our stores of gold,
    If our children feel that life’s work is done. 
      We must give them a high ideal to hold.

Rebellion

“My Crown Prince was fine and fair,” a sorrowful
father said,
“But he marched away with his regiment and
they tell me that he’s dead! 
‘We all must go,’ he whispered low, ’We must
fight for the Fatherland.’ 
Now the heart of me’s torn with the grief I
know, and I cannot understand,
For none of the Kaiser’s princes lie out there
where my soldier sleeps;
Here’s a land where grief is the common lot, but
never the Kaiser weeps.