All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet.
The innocent names kept up a cool refrain,
All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet,
Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain
Until he babbled like a child again—
"All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet."
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON.

By permission, Gibson, COLLECTED POEMS, Macmillan Co.

POPPIES

Poppies in the wheat fields of the pleasant fields of France,

Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and

dance;

Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune—
Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench

Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread, Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.

Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sunBroken, bruised and trampled-but the bitter day is

won;

Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.

Poppies in the wheat field; how still beside them lie Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst

on high;

Gently bending o'er them beneath the moon's soft glance, Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France.

CAPT. JOSEPH MILLS HANSON.

From YANKS, Published by the A. E. F.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

LIEUT.-COL. JOHN MCCRAE.

By permission of PUNCH and THE NEW YORK TIMES.

DEATH AND THE FAIRIES

Before I joined the Army

I lived in Donegal,

Where every night the Fairies

Would hold their carnival.

But now I'm out in Flanders,
Where men like wheat-ears fall,

And it's Death and not the Fairies

Who is holding carnival.

PATRICK MACGILL.

By permission, MacGill, SOLDIER SONGS, E. P. Dutton & Co.

THE KINGS

Three kings riding forth of old
(Myrrh and frankincense and gold),

Three kings waiting fearful dawn
Where the battle-lines are drawn.

Kings of bloody strife, how far
You have wandered from your star!
HENRY WILLIAM HOYNE.

By permission, THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.

THE GERMAN-AMERICAN

Honor to him whose very blood remembers
The old, enchanted dream-song of the Rhine,
Although his house of life is fair with shine
Of fires new-kindled on the buried embers;

Whose heart is wistful for the flowers he tended
Beside his mother, for the carven gnome
And climbing bear and cuckoo-clock of home,
For the whispering forest path two lovers wended;

Who none the less, still strange in speech and manner,
With our young Freedom keeps his plighted faith,
Sides with his children's hope against the wraith
Of his own childhood, hails the starry Banner

As emblem of his country now, to-morrow;
A patriot by duty, not by birth.

The costliest loyalty has purest worth.

Honor to him who draws the sword in sorrow !

KATHERINE LEE BATES.

By permission, DRUMS AND FIFES, THE VIGILANTES' Book, published

by Doran, New York.

By permission, Bates, THE RETINUE, E. P. Dutton & Co.

LAST CHRISTMAS IN THE HOLY LAND They are coming out of Egypt and they seek the Promised Land

Through the desert and the lions that are standing in

the way.

Hark! I hear the Tommies, cheering to the music of the band;

66

Carry on!" the captain's calling, "Carry on!" and "Clear the way!"

They have taken Gath and Ashdod and old Ascalon as

well,

The places where the Philistines so fondly loved to

dwell;

They have got the gates of Gaza, and advancing in their wrath

They smite the Hun as David smote Goliath of old Gath. They have entered little Bethlehem with joy for Christmas Day,

They are in the Holy City with a prayer no words may

say.

God keep you, young Crusaders! away beyond the sea; He led you through the desert and Jerusalem is free. ANDREW F. WEST. By permission, copyrighted 1919 by SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind—
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase-
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, should adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

MEN OF THE NORTH

Men of the North, look up!
There's a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out,
Great shadows hurrying by.

Men of the North, awake!

Ye're called to from the deep;
Trumpets in every breeze-
Yet there ye lie asleep.

A stir in every tree,

A shout from every wave;
A challenging on every side,

A moan from every grave: