Part 11 (1/2)

King Victor's brave Italians Are driving back pell-mell The Austrian battalions And weiners will not sell.

The Belgians, too, are holding Their end up with the rest, They hear the Teutons scolding, Bologna's past its best.

Roumanians, and others, Who now are standing pat Will call the allies brothers When lager beer goes flat.

TROUBLE IN THE TRENCHES

The true story of the difficulty on the Russian front.

September, 1917

When Slav and Russ had raised a fuss, And sent their Czar a-kiting, Said Givinski to Blatherski, ”We've done enough of fighting.”

”I've got a cough,” wheezed Killmanoff, ”From working in the trenches, I'd rather fight a doggoned sight, Than put up with the stenches.

I want to quit and take a sit In some place clean and brighter, Let those who like come down the pike To strafe the German blighter.”

”I've got the itch,” growled Dirtovitch, ”Bog spavin and lumbago.”

”I'm never dry,” swore Goshallski, ”I smell worse than a Dago.”

”This cheese is high,” grouched b.u.t.tinski, ”No hungry rat would eat it.”

”This meat is tough,” whined Ivanuff, ”I think we ought to beat it.”

”It makes me mad,” stormed Hazembad, ”The prevalence of vermin.”

”You've said it right,” owned Gotabite, ”I'm lousy as a German.”

Said Takemoff, ”Our lives are rough In these here blooming ditches, But mine's the worst by half a verst, Since some guy stole my breeches.”

Their pay was back, their belts were slack, Each man his troubles blurted.

With empty guns to face the Huns, Small wonder they deserted.

THE WORs.h.i.+PPERS

Wo Sing was just a heathen blind, A dull insensate clod, Yet somehow to his darkened mind, There came a thought of G.o.d.

He shaped an idol out of clay, And to it bowed his knee; No one had taught him how to pray, Alas, the poor Chinee!

An artist took his brush and paint, And on his canvas board, He wrought a picture of a saint, And called it Christ the Lord; With patient hand, and wondrous skill, Retouched that kindly face, But thought it ever lacking still, In majesty and grace.

A preacher in his pulpit stood, (His words the people trust,) His message was that G.o.d is good, And knows mankind is dust.

He drew a picture of a Lord, Omniscient, pure and kind, His thoughts, His purposes, His word, Too high for human mind.

The Kaiser has conceived a G.o.d, To rule o'er sea and land, With strong, remorseless, iron rod, In Hohenzollern hand; A G.o.d who honors lies and fraud, And mean hypocrisy, A boastful, b.l.o.o.d.y, brutal G.o.d, The G.o.d of Germany.

And thus we all our idols make, As our conception is, And pray our Father, but to take, Our helpless hands in His; To give us each a ray of hope, To each a message bring, Each king and kaiser, priest and pope, Each humble poor Wo Sing.