Trenches
Barb-Wire Posts
Feet
Your Gas-Mask
Slum and Beef Stew
Shell-Fire
Mr.Fly
The Salvation Army with the A. E. F.
Shell-Holes
Food
Over the Top
The Battle Mother
Song of the Volunteers of 1917
O. D.
Artillery Registering
Reciprocity
Trucks
Mademoiselle
The First Division
Little Gold Chevrons on My Cuffs
A Trip-Wire
The Favorite Song
Captain Blankburg
Little War Mothers
Interrupted Chow
S. O. S.
The Gas-Proof Mule
Infantry of the World War
The Flowers of France
A First-Class Private
Birds of Battle
Only for You
Cooties
Old Fusee
The Colors of Blighty
When Nurse Comes in
Charlie Chaplin in Blighty
Two Worlds
Embarkation Home
The Statue of Liberty

PART II—PRE-WAR POEMS

To France—1917
The Pacifist
Battle Hymn of ’17

PART III—OTHER VERSES

My Sapphire
The Twins
On Sending My Book to an English Friend
Immortal Keats
To a Little Girl
God
The Golden Day
Notes

MY COMRADES IN THE RANKS.

You chose no easy Service,
No safe job, friends of mine,
But the mud of the shell-torn, trenches
And the foremost battle-line.
No camouflage patriotism—
Though you had from a wealth to choose
But the wicked work of No Man’s Land,
Filling a man’s-size shoes.

You didn’t say you wouldn’t play
If you got no shoulder bars—
You even placed your Country
Above a general’s stars:
For shocking, very shocking,
You didn’t give a damn
About your “social status,”
When you fought for Uncle Sam.

Friends of mine, friends of mine,
I’ve shared your toil and tears—
Your dangers and your little woes,
When days were turned to years.
I may not make them understand
The things that you have done,
But God bless you and God keep you—
Every blessed mother’s son.