The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

BENEATH A CLOUD

Under a passing cloud the moon was hid.I really was delighted to be ridOf Super light, for I was with my Nell,And I could see by her bright eyes as well.We didn't need the aid of spheres above,For that's our proper sphere—a making love.Midst whispering pines we pledged our love aloud,And thus our plight began beneath a cloud.

THE COLUMBIAD

America! Our home, our native land!The joy of it—the rapture! when we say—We who are freemen and can understand—This is our heritage—the U. S. A.!Hewn from the virgin forests by our sires,And launched by giants capable and true,Our Ship of State was manned, when Freedom's firesWere beacon lights, by sturdy, godly crew,—And so hath kept, steered by the Guiding StarOf Faith, her steadfast course, thru shoal or blast,Aloof from sirens luring from afar,With Stars and Stripes still waving at the mast.Here in our Land, where Plenty hath its store,Where fertile fields teem with abundant grain,Hunger ne'er casts its shadow on the door,And Famine hath no lodge on hill or plain.In truth doth Luxury with Plenty vieTo fill our laps with all the luscious thingsThat Nature doth provide—loath to denyThe satisfaction that such bounty brings.To us was Freedom's heritage bequeathedTo have and hold while life and pride remain:And so our sword must ever be unsheathedTo guard this priceless boon from hurt or stain—So that the war-worn hosts in Europe's maze,Who fight against the Despot's ruthless spear,May see the light of Liberty ablaze,Diffusing matchless splendor over here;And, friendly beacon, be to them a signAnd Bow of Promise, in their dismal sky,The Light of Hope eternally to shineIn God's resplendent galaxy on High.But grim starvation, at the board, presidesAcross the seas, where once the farmsteads pouredAutumnal wealth—and Desolation ridesRough shod along where tramped the Prussian horde.No life remains: the fields are stark and sere;The forests, leaf and branch and root, are fled;The flowers lie trampled on the soldier's bier:Destroyed are e'en the shelters of the dead.The gardens that held plenty in their wombsAre stripped and barren as the sands of Dearth,And now, instead, keep vigil o'er the tombsOf demigods, redeemers of the Earth.The vineyards where the fragrant fruitage hungTo cheer the peaceful peasant in his toilAre desolate where Death his shroud has flungUpon the breadth of France's sacred soil.Wrecked are the homesteads: buzzard broods aboundWhere shell-holes gape, and heaps of carnage riseAbove the naked bosom of the ground,Mutely denying guilt, in sacrifice.Still with the jackal at her wounds doth FranceFight on unmindful of her pains, and lo!We hear her call and, seizing shield and lance,Crusader-like, to her assistance go.Her cause is just: we make her Cause our own!For Liberty doth in the balance swing,And we must guard her, if we fight aloneTo rid the world of this malignant ThingThat, in the guise of Kultur, hides its hoofsAnd horns, its tail and spear and hideous face,And, as a pious priest, on Moslem roofs,Extols itself, usurping Allah's place.What blasphemy! Obsessed to germinateIts propaganda, its infernal cult;Condoning Cain's offense, instilling hate,It strikes with poison, dirk and catapultAgainst the precepts of the Prince of Peace;Against the Conscience of the Universe.But hatred, lust and war will never ceaseUntil God's Sword destroys this monstrous curse.Audaciously the Priests of Kultur striveTo spread their doctrine, but the graven godAgainst the Living Christ cannot survive,And in His time will scourged be with His rod.And so our Ship of State to battle hastes,All sails a-drawing, sheets secure and taut,Manned by a stalwart crew, stripped to the waists,Inspired by battles that our fathers fought.In port at last whence Lafayette once sailedTo aid our fight that made Britannia halt,They take their stand where Frenchmen never failedTo hold the Verdun forts against assault.A mighty effort this! To send our forceThree thousand miles, thru shark-infested sea,Beneath dark skies where vultures lay their course,To face the foe and ransom Liberty,Thru sacrificial offering of our sons;To arm and clothe five million men, and thenBuild, to convey and feed them, countless tonsOf mighty vessels—transports, merchantmen;To furnish, in addition, vast suppliesTo allied Powers whose Cause we have embraced,To hearten them—to strengthen friendly tiesAnd stay the hand that layeth Europe waste.A task indeed! But let it not be thoughtBy foemen or by those whom we befriendThat Liberty our trust, so dearly bought,Will not be guarded to the very end.Tho Hercules the Strong should heave in sightAnd challenge us to tests of thews and nerve,We'd enter the arena in our mightAnd win new honors for the Land we serve;For Antaeus and all the myths of old'Gainst whom the supermen of yore engaged,Were never half so mighty, half so boldAs peaceful freemen, righteously enraged:And all the modern Bullies who presumeTo dominate the world against the Right,Must see their day-dreams doomed to blackest gloomWhen Truth prevails against the Imps of Night.So let us fabricate in forge and mill;So let us plant and nurture grain and seed;So let us labor and conserve untilThere be an end to Kultur's cruel creed.Each one of us must fight or toil or save;Co-ordination be our battle song;Hardships endure and gravest dangers braveIf we would victors be and right the wrong.God's ways to mortal eyes are not revealed,But Faith our guidance is thru War's grim task,And with His help the Hosts of Sin must yieldAnd Satan be denuded of his mask.

HE'S ALL RIGHT, BUT—!

I like the good old-fashioned way—A handshake or a slap,—The boys who jab your ribs and say"You're all right, Bill, Old Chap!"I like the lad who sees you firstAnd always shouts your name,—Who, tho your luck be at its worst,Says—"Cheer up, Bill! Be game!"I like the chum who's always gladTo soothe you when you're ill,—Who, when he finds you broke and sad,Says—"Here's a Dollar, Bill!"I'd like to grab him by the throatAnd hold his mouth tight shut,—Who, questioned, makes you out the goat—"Who? Bill? He's all right, but—!"

NATURE'S STUDIO

Go where the winds keep vigil o'er the trees,Rocking the tender saplings in the breeze;Go where the sunbeams play on rill and stream,Making the purling waters all agleam;Go where the birds rehearse their songs and trillsIn cool retreats, led by the Whippoorwills;Go where the bees, midst clover blooms, indulgeTheir honey habit till their bellies bulge;Go where the trout, in alder-arbored brooks,Abate their hunger but eschew the hooks;Go where the flowers, by fairy weavers spun,Pour out their grateful incense to the Sun;Go where the deer in secret nooks disportAnd Nature, clad in verdure, holds her Court;Go where—nay, stay! Yonder the artist stands,With brush and prismy palette in her hands,Before her easel, where the canvas seemsA masterpiece in wondrous color schemes.What artistry! What fascinating viewsDame Nature paints! Behold the rainbow huesThat tint the dainty flowers and make the roseBlush to its sepals when it seeks repose;That tinge the moors and fields and turquoise sky,And stain the Autumn leaves with crimson dye!So tarry here, where moss and bluebells growUpon the floor of Nature's Studio!

PICARDY

With heads uncovered and with cautious treadApproach ye here! where lie our martyred deadIn graves unmarked, here, there and everywhere:So lest, ashamed, ye trample them, beware!

AMERICA'S PRAYER

God bless our Allies! damn the Huns!And consecrate our swords and guns!

EPILOGUE

They say that a stitch that is timely saves nine:You haven't your needle? O, well then, take mine;And all my Dream Outfit—my pipe and my dope!I've smoked my last hemp to the end of my rope.

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From Logos (word) and Thete (Theodore)—The word of Theodore.