Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it, The storm is o'er your head; It is bursting in the trenches And you're just as good as dead.

You put your foot on Belgium And defied your fate and doom, And now the whole world hates you And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"

True, your Taubchens still are sailing, But your battleships are not; They are coop'd up in a corner Save the submerg'd ones that fought.

You are saving time and fuel, But you're sad and filled with gloom, For the very winds are whispering "Blow hard and sock it to 'em."

You have sought more s.p.a.cious realm In the free and genial sun: Has your sceptre widened any With the salvo of each gun?

Your "World-Power" seems to narrow, And your hope lies in a tomb, While dark Fate weaves your chaplet And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"

_For Theodore Botrel._

LANGEMARCK

A glory lights the skies of Flanders Where the blood-stained fields lie bare, Where the clouds of war have gathered, Built their parapets in the air; Halted stands the Teuton army, Checked its onslaught at a sign; Forward roll the warlike forces, Sons of Canada in line.

Let them taste of Northern courage Where the lordly maple grows; Let them face the heroes nurtured Where the stars have wed the snows; We are sons of sires undaunted, Children of the hills and plains; Ours a courage born of duty, Pluck and dash of many strains.

Tell it to our children's children How Canadians saved the day; Write it with the pen of history, Sing it as a fireside lay; How at Langemarck in Flanders, Though the odds were eight to one, Our Canadians stood unbroken, Sword to sword, and gun to gun.

_For Sir Wilfrid Laurier._

THE BUGLE CALL

Do you hear the call of our Mother, From over the sea, from over the sea?

The call to her children, in every land; To her sons on Afric's far-stretch'd veldt; To her dark-skinned children on India's sh.o.r.e, Whose souls are nourish'd on Aryan lore; To her sons of the Northland where frosty stars Glitter and shine like a helmet of Mars; Do you hear the call of our Mother?

Do you hear the call of our Mother From over the sea, from over the sea?

The call to Australia's legions strong, That move with the might and stealth of a wave; To the men of the camp and men of the field, Whose courage has taught them never to yield; To the men whose counsel has saved the State, And thwarted the plans of impending fate; Do you hear the call of our Mother?

Do you hear the call of our Mother From over the sea, from over the sea?

To the little cot on the wind-swept hill; To the lordly mansion in the city street; To her sons who toil in the forest deep Or bind the sheaves where the reapers reap; To her children scattered far East and West; To her sons who joy in her Freedom Blest; Do you hear the call of our Mother?

_For Major-General Sir Sam Hughes._

HIS MISSION

"A German will teach Irish at the University of Illinois, beginning in February, when Dr. Kuno E. Meyer of the University of Berlin will become visiting professor of the Celtic language and literature."--_Press Despatch_.

Go back, dear Kuno, to the Poles and Alsatians, And teach them the language your nation has robbed; Piece out their dreams of new glory and freedom; Bring joy to the hearts where the children have sobbed.

We love the old Celtic tongue, vibrant with music, As it speaks to our hearts thro' the chords of long years, But we don't want your lessons, though laden with "_Kultur_,"

From a land where Alsatians and Poles are in tears.

Go back, Herr Professor, your mission is ended, For, though your gifts are many, you are "_ausgespielt_"; Go back and receive your "Kreuz von Eisen,"

For we don't like the way that you're "_ausgebild't_."

The stars that burn with the true light of freedom, In this giant new world, with its endless day, Have nothing in common with your satellite planets, And care not to shine on your Eagle's prey.

_For Dr. Douglas Hyde._

ACHILLES' TOMB

Achilles awoke in his ancient tomb Hard by the coast of Troy; He rattled his armor now full of dust And rubbed his eyes like a boy, As he gazed on the ships of the allied fleet, Ploughing the seas from afar, Bent on their course to the Dardanelles 'Neath the light of Victory's star.

"Why, I've been asleep," Achilles said, "On the windy plains of Troy; Three thousand years have turned to dust With their maddening mirth and joy; Yet it seems but a day since Ilium fell, Since Sinon spun out his tale, And the Greeks returned from Tenedos With a light and prosperous gale.

"Three thousand years is a long, long time, But I'll doze for a thousand more; For I'm sick of the bluff of the Teuton hosts And the gas from each army corps.

So lay me down in my ancient tomb, Where the Phrygian winds sweep by, And I'll dream of the days when heroes fought, 'Round the lofty walls of Troy."

_For Very Rev. W. R. Harris, D.D._

THE CHRISM OF KINGS

In the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time, When Kingdoms were few and Empires unknown, G.o.d searched for a Ruler to sceptre the land, And gather the harvest from the seed He had sown.

He found a young Shepherd boy watching his flock Where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green; He hailed the young Shepherd boy king of the land And anointed his brow with a Chrism unseen.

He placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power, And taught his young heart all the wisdom of love; He gave him the vision of prophet and priest, And dowered him with counsel and light from above.

But alas! came a day when the Shepherd forgot And heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings, And bartering his purple for the greed of his heart He lost both the sceptre and Chrism of Kings.

_For Miss Katherine Bregy._

TIPPERARY

(New version.)

I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do, I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew; And when we've chased them thro' the deep, _Ach Gott!_ what fun there'll be Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.

So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!

I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun; Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too, So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.

Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green, Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen; Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal; Where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul.

So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew, Then I'll turn my face to greet you for to you I'll e'er be true; So I'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep, _Ach Himmel_, Tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep.