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

Over a million slain;
And Mescal is the bane
Of Mexico.

O, Land of Chili con
Carne and Obregon,
Let murders cease!
Keep Freedom's fires aglow
Where La Frijólés grow;
Throw up your Sombrero
And Keep the Peace!

LOVE

I

Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire:
We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill;
Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire
Till Passion be consumed, but not until.

II

Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent—
His quiver empty and his bow unstrung—
And peers into the pleasing Past, content
To live, unmoved, his memories among.

STRONGARM'S WATERLOO

Some drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!
That's putting proper English on, you see!
And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up
To easy putting distance from the cup.
Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!
He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;
And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,
A new low record for the Piedmont Links.
See with what confidence he wends his way
The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!
The Gallery, expectant, follows thru
To see the Champion go down in two.
Then to the ball he makes his last address,
(The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)
And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so
Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.
Alas for human frailty! See it flit
Across the green into the sandy pit!
The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!
While he invoked the Deity in prayer.
And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,
The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

A halo hung around the Stranger's head
It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,
For what he said, in type is not displayed
Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!
The Player loses all his self-control
And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,
When Caddie trails the ball and kicks it in!

Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks
The weary Golfers on their inward treks;
And close beside, beneath the porch's shade,
The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade
And other cheering drinks, within the law;
But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say,
If serving one's country deserves any praise:
Two years at the front, then an arm shot away!
And this is my "cross" in reward for those days.
But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins
I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun
Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains:
Until France is free we must fight: every one!

Of course I'll go back to the trenches again:
My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound;
Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men
Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground.
I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top,
The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm,
With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop:
For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm!

France needs every son, be they crippled or strong,
To rid our fair land of the murderous horde:
So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along!
And fight till the Glory of France is restored!
Our women are outraged, our children enslaved;
Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath!
We can never turn back, so be it engraved
On our spears and escutcheons,—Vengeance or Death!

WAR