Country Sentiment

HATE NOT, FEAR NOT.

     Kill if you must, but never hate:
       Man is but grass and hate is blight,
     The sun will scorch you soon or late,
       Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

     Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
       That cankers root and fruit alike,
     Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
       Strike with no madness when you strike.

     Fever and fear distract the world,
       But calm be you though madmen shout,
     Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
       Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!

A RHYME OF FRIENDS.
     (In a Style Skeltonical)

     Listen now this time
     Shortly to my rhyme
     That herewith starts
     About certain kind hearts
     In those stricken parts
     That lie behind Calais,
     Old crones and aged men
     And young children.
     About the Picardais,
     Who earned my thousand thanks,
     Dwellers by the banks
     Of mournful Somme
     (God keep me therefrom
     Until War ends)—
     These, then, are my friends:
     Madame Averlant Lune,
     From the town of Bethune;
     Good Professeur la Brune
     From that town also.
     He played the piccolo,
     And left his locks to grow.
     Dear Madame Hojdes,
     Sempstress of Saint Fe.
     With Jules and Susette
     And Antoinette.
     Her children, my sweethearts,
     For whom I made darts
     Of paper to throw
     In their mimic show,
     "La guerre aux tranchees."
     That was a pretty play.

       There was old Jacques Caron,
     Of the hamlet Mailleton.
     He let me look
     At his household book,
     "Comment vivre cent ans."
     What cares I took
     To obey this wise book,
     I, who feared each hour
     Lest Death's cruel power
     On the poppied plain
     Might make cares vain!

       By Noeus-les-mines
     Lived old Adelphine,
     Withered and clean,
     She nodded and smiled,
     And used me like a child.
     How that old trot beguiled
     My leisure with her chatter,
     Gave me a china platter
     Painted with Cherubim
     And mottoes on the rim.
     But when instead of thanks
     I gave her francs
     How her pride was hurt!
     She counted francs as dirt,
     (God knows, she was not rich)
     She called the Kaiser bitch,
     She spat on the floor,
     Cursing this Prussian war,
     That she had known before
     Forty years past and more.

       There was also "Tomi,"
     With looks sweet and free,
     Who called me cher ami.
     This orphan's age was nine,
     His folk were in their graves,
     Else they were slaves
     Behind the German line
     To terror and rapine—
     O, little friends of mine
     How kind and brave you were,
     You smoothed away care
     When life was hard to bear.
     And you, old women and men,
     Who gave me billets then,
     How patient and great-hearted!
     Strangers though we started,
     Yet friends we ever parted.
     God bless you all:  now ends
     This homage to my friends.