VERSES 
 
 RANSOM JUDD POWELL 
 
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CopuTlght 1919 
 
 R. J. POWELL 
 
 All rights reservtd 
 
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 Verses 
 
 by 
 Ransom Judd Powell 
 
 Of^ 
 
 To My Friends — My Kindly Critics 
 
 These simple verses are presented, with no 
 claim of literary merit. They express the 
 lights, the shadozvs and the diversions of the 
 period of stress through ivhich zve have just 
 passed. If, in some slight degree, they 
 azvaken a sympathetic response in the heart 
 of any other, I am satisfied. 
 
 R. J. P. 
 
 Minneapolis, Minnesota 
 December 9th, 1918 
 
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 Old Glory "^"^^-^ 
 
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 Hark the song! Like a mighty wave it surges on, 
 
 'Tis the song of the brave hearts, and true. 
 
 Let us join in the chorus as it rolls along; 
 
 To our country let us pay our homage due ! 
 
 Let us sing of our faith in splendid victory ; 
 
 Of the flag that we all love to see. 
 
 Let us hail Old Glory! 
 
 'Tis the flas: of the brave and free. 
 
 Loving peace, hating war, we dwelt in amity ; 
 Honest judgment and faith was our guide ; 
 When the Teuton, with merciless barbarity. 
 Shocked the world, and fiung his challenge far and 
 
 wide. 
 Not content to demoralize humanity, 
 To destroy all the progress of time, 
 He would stain Old Glory, 
 Starry banner, — the flag sublime ! 
 
 Slow to wrath, we had hoped the storm might pass 
 
 away. 
 That the war-maddened monarch would pause, 
 E'er he trampled on ev'ry right, and forced the day 
 When with others we must join the common cause. 
 But he broke every promise, and with infamy 
 Stamped us craven, and slavish and base. 
 And declared Old Glory 
 Sailed the sea only by his grace. 
 
 Then Columbia awoke, and from the hill and plain 
 Sprang the millions to answer her cry; 
 Quick to strike down the savage, and avenge the stain 
 Cast upon her by his insult, or to die. 
 
 JAN --B '9!9 
 
 'Hio I 
 
For the flag that we love was never known to bend, 
 Nor before any monarch to bow, 
 And our proud Old Glory, 
 Shall not trail under insult now! 
 
 When the foemen who sought with pride to rule the 
 world 
 
 Have been crushed, and their mad purpose stayed ; 
 
 When the base crew that 'round the earth their chal- 
 lenge hurled 
 
 Have been punished, and their ravages repaid ; 
 
 When the great war is done, and shouts of victory 
 
 Thrill the air through the wide ether dome, 
 
 We'll embrace Old Glory, 
 
 As our brave boys come marching home. 
 
 At the shrine of the fallen we uncovered bow, 
 'Neath the flag they have hallowed again ; 
 Firm resolved that the cause be not forgotten now ; 
 That our sons and men shall not have died in vain. 
 They were heroes, and freely made the sacrifice ; 
 Proud the nation whose sons are so true ! 
 Homage from Old Glory 
 To our boys is forever due. 
 
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A Mother's Prayer 
 
 He stood on the steps of the car that day — 
 My one soldier boy had been ordered away — 
 And the smile in his eyes was so cheerful and strong 
 That I knew I could trust him — he'd never go wrong : 
 My boy with eyes so brown. 
 
 I answered his smile with a brave "God speed," 
 And we talked commonplaces — of things he might 
 
 need; 
 But the eyes of my soul saw him starting alone 
 To tread duty's path through the Great Unknown : 
 
 My boy with eyes so brown. 
 
 I saw him in danger on earth and in air. 
 The crashing of battles — I pictured him there. 
 I heard the guns thunder, the rifle's sharp crack — 
 And I dreaded to think he might never come back : 
 My boy with eyes so brown. 
 
 The duty that called him, I know — I commend. 
 Our blood and our treasures we yield to the end. 
 But Oh, God of Battles! Through danger and stress 
 Please bring back my boy — he is all I possess : 
 My boy with eyes so brown. 
 
Carry On! 
 
 Round the earth a mighty slogan echoes loudly, 
 
 "Carry on ! Carry on !" 
 To the call our great Columbia answers proudly, 
 
 "Carry on ! We'll carry on!" 
 We were slow to wrath — by nature peaceful ; 
 But we're in it now with brain and brawn. 
 Like a giant engine working, never halting, never 
 shirking, 
 
 Till the end of time, we'll carry on! 
 
 How the patriotic battle cry has thrilled us! 
 
 "Carry on ! Carry on !" 
 How the patriotic sentiment has filled us! 
 
 "Carry on! We'll carry on!" 
 Like a fiery blast the test has bound us ; 
 East and West and North and South, we're One. 
 And the spirit of our Nation is a power through all 
 creation, 
 
 While in wisdom's path we carry on ! 
 
 O'er the sea our gallant boys are bravely calling 
 
 "Carry on ! Carry on !" 
 In the battle's awful crash our sons are falling; 
 
 Leaving us to "carry on." 
 They are giving all for our salvation. 
 For the glory of tomorrow's dawn. 
 When from ocean unto ocean, with a pride in their de- 
 votion, 
 
 We united stand to "carry on !" 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Carry on ! Ye sons of a just and mighty race. 
 With a cheer for the Red, White and Blue. 
 Carry on ! Defeat we shall never, never face 
 If we one and all are brave and true. 
 
Only Waiting 
 
 One day in a vision there came to my side, 
 An angel of wisdom, — with wondrous smile. 
 He drew back the veil whose dark draperies hide 
 The world's deepest thoughts for awhile. 
 I saw men as actors — all playing their parts. 
 Our boasted achievements so great 
 Are merely diversions, for deep in our hearts, 
 We wait — we only wait. 
 
 The mothers and fathers with sons in the fray — - 
 
 I saw them throughout all our wide domain. 
 
 I saw their activities day after day ; 
 
 Their hopes and their fears and their pain. 
 
 In shops or at home, in the office or field. 
 
 In wealth or in poverty's state, 
 
 In every action their hearts are concealed ; 
 
 They wait — they only wait. 
 
 We wait. And each day with its news of the strife 
 Brings a deeper emotion, a keener distress. 
 Each one saw his boy go away full of life, 
 But our fearful forebodings we cannot repress. 
 We hope for the dawn of that wonderful day 
 When the arrogant foe, face to face with his fate. 
 Sheaths his sword in defeat. For this wondrous array 
 We wait — we pray and wait. 
 
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IVere On Our Way 
 
 A Colored War Song 
 
 We'ah duh dusky sons ob Uncle Sam, 
 An' we'ah off to Ge'many to fight. 
 We come f'om good old Alabam', 
 An' many othuh places what is striben fo' duh right, — 
 
 So we'ah on ouah way to do some mighty fightin'. 
 
 He'ah we's a-comin' a million strong. 
 
 An' dar'U shuah be sumpin' doin' wid duh cullud 
 boys along; 
 
 'Cause we'ah on ouah way to help wid duh rightin' 
 
 Ob all dis great big fuss — an' punish eb'ry wrong. 
 
 Eber since Abe Lincoln set us free 
 We has waited patiently fo' dis. 
 An' now de oppo'tunity 
 
 To show ouah 'preciation is a chance we wouldn't 
 miss, — 
 So we'ah on ouah way an' may duh Lawd fo'gib us, 
 Ef we don't go an' fight like mad, 
 Jes' to show duh Boss a fightah what he didn't know 
 
 he had, 
 'Cause we'ah on ouah way, no one can say dey drib 
 
 us; 
 We voluntee'ahd an' he'ah we a'ah — an' mighty glad. 
 
 Uncle Sam, he look'd — an' he sez, sez he, 
 
 "He'ah's a job dat's badly needin' did." 
 So he called fo' his boys to cross duh sea. 
 
 Den some ob dull white fellows run away an' hid. — 
 But we'ah on ouah way, we don't know whe'ah we's 
 
 goin', 
 Excep'. when Uncle Sam say go. 
 Dis he'ah niggah's gwine to hustle and to strike a 
 
 mighty blow. 
 Fo' we'ah on ouah way ; we heah de ho'n a-blow- 
 
 in'; 
 It's callin' us to come and conkuh eb'ry foe. 
 
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Song of the Rookies 
 
 The Hun tried to squeeze Uncle Sam from the seas, — 
 he was foolish as fools can be. 
 
 Our weakness, he said, would make us dread the anger 
 of Germany. 
 
 They thought that because we regarded the laws, we 
 
 were cowards and would not fight. 
 So they went — right — out — to — sink ev'rything in 
 
 sight. 
 Then old Uncle Sam got mad and called for all the 
 
 boys he had. 
 And all the ships and guns and things from ev'ry- 
 
 where, 
 He sent the regulars to France, and gave the Nation's 
 
 Guard a chance, 
 And then he yelled for us, — and here we are! 
 
 Chorus — 
 
 We are the Rookies bold, the soldiers of Uncle Sam. 
 We come from lands of ice and snow, from lands of 
 
 the rice and yam; 
 But we can "hay-foot-straw foot" handle and shoot a 
 
 gun. 
 We'll never quit till Bill is It, and the war is won! 
 
 The day we enlisted, a doctor assisted by medical men 
 
 galore. 
 Endeavored to find out ev'ry kind of things we had 
 
 had before. 
 They stood us in rows and they counted our toes, and 
 
 they stripped us from foot to head, 
 
 And you should — have — heard — the — things that those 
 
 doctors said. 
 "Here's a Mutt, a perfect Nut;" "He's much too fat." 
 
 and all of that ; 
 While all around those doctors chased us to and fro. 
 They pulled our tongues and swelled our lungs, and 
 
 tried our eyes in ev'ry size. 
 And then they said: "You're it, and you can go!" 
 
When we were measured, the things that we treasured 
 were taken away and hid. 
 
 We thought it was rough and rather tough to treat 
 us the way they did. 
 
 They put us in uniform, fashioned in cuniform, 
 banded our legs in spats, 
 
 And they sent — us — out — with girdles around our 
 hats. 
 
 People shout when we turn out, and dogs and chil- 
 dren run about, 
 
 While all the girls, they greet us with a smile of joy. 
 
 They hand us strings of socks and things, and every 
 one a sweater brings, 
 
 While all around they're yelling: "Atta Boy!" 
 
 They sent us to camp, and we had to revamp all our 
 
 previous views of things. 
 We thought it immense to live in tents, and have the 
 
 free life it brings. 
 But in spite of our hunches, they took us in bunches 
 
 and herded us into shacks, 
 Then they sent — us — out — to dig up the railway 
 
 tracks. 
 Doctors we had hoped to shun, but there we found 
 
 them every one ; 
 
 The pills and squills they fed us was an awful shame ; 
 They vaccinated us with dope, inoculation made us 
 
 mope — 
 But we began to like it just the same. 
 
 The Sergeant who drilled us with merriment filled us, 
 
 to see the cute way he had 
 Of swinging his hands to give commands, and cussing 
 
 when he was mad. 
 We learned to maneuver and also to "Hoover," to fight 
 
 and to be prepared. 
 And you — should — see — us "dig in" when we are 
 
 scared. 
 We can cook and handle tools, and also shoe the army 
 
 mules. 
 
While every one can tinker with a lot of things. 
 Afternoons we sail balloons, and also whistle all the 
 
 tunes 
 Of all the pieces everybody sings. 
 
 We were put in a company where they could dump 
 
 any kind of a man they found. 
 We had Russians and Medes and Poles and Swedes, 
 
 and men from the Norton Sound. 
 There were Irish crusaders and far-away traders from 
 
 Greenland and Trinidad, 
 But they — could — fight — whenever you got them mad. 
 Some were clumsy in their gaits, and few could talk 
 
 United States, 
 But they were with us to the bitter end, you know. 
 Though they could not understand, we gladly took 
 
 them by the hand. 
 And soon a common spirit seemed to grow. 
 
 They gave us our chance, when they sent us to France, 
 
 with a Captain who knows no fear. 
 He is canny and wise and always tries to cheer us 
 
 when danger's near. 
 When the enemy shells us, our Captain just tells us 
 
 to "dig in" and lie down flat. 
 But you — can — bet — he's there where the danger's at. 
 He was never known to swear, but he will lead us 
 
 anywhere. 
 To strike our mighty enemy his greatest joy. 
 In a fight, 'tis his delight to cheer his men with all his 
 
 might. 
 And do it while he cares for every boy. 
 
 One day we were digging and patching and rigging 
 
 a road, when a gang of Huns 
 Came over the top, and tried to mop the earth with 
 
 your Uncle's sons. 
 Each threw down his shovel, and fought like the devil 
 
 — they "beat it" for safety soon. 
 
And we camped— right — in — their trenches that after- 
 noon. 
 
 Every Hun, he dropped his gun, and Holy Moses! 
 How they run ! 
 
 While all around the cannon roared on every hand. 
 
 Through the battle's awful blast, we beat the Boches 
 back at last 
 
 And then sat down to listen to the band. 
 
 When they told us to "Hop," we went over the top 
 
 with a whoop, and away we ran. 
 The Boches said: "Wait! And let's debate till we fix 
 
 up a peace again." 
 We answered : "Nay, nay, Fritz, we cannot delay, for 
 
 we're after your Kaiser's crown." 
 And we marched— in — to— Berlin as the sun went 
 
 down. 
 Everybody on the street came crowding in for things 
 
 to eat. 
 While all they had to ofifer was a hearty song. 
 The Kaiser brought his sons and things, and said: 
 
 "Behold the coming Kings!" 
 But we said: "Get your hats and come along!" 
 
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Welcome Home! 
 
 Bravest and best of the sons of our nation ! 
 
 Mark how they sprang when the war cry was sounded ; 
 
 Eager for service in every station ; 
 
 Quick to defend what our forefathers founded. 
 
 Crowned with victory, homeward they're pressing. 
 
 Hearts beating high while their coming we wait. 
 
 Join in the chorus of welcome and blessing. 
 
 Hail our young manhood — the masters of fate! 
 
 Bravest and best of the sons of our nation ! 
 
 Mark how they fell while the battle was roaring. 
 
 Gone to the "west" land — the soul's destination. 
 
 Noblest of offerings — freedom's outpouring! 
 
 Hark to the Great Commandant over yonder, 
 
 "Come! Take your place with the great of the past." 
 
 Through Heaven's arches celestial choirs thunder, 
 
 "Welcome ! Thrice welcome ! You're safe home at 
 last." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Welcome home! We long to greet them. 
 
 Unconfined be our joyful emotion. 
 
 Welcome home! We haste to meet them, 
 
 Proud to hail our boys again, 
 
 Welcome home! Was ever nation 
 
 Bless'd with manhood of such devotion? 
 
 Ring the bells ! Shake the earth with a mighty cheer 
 
 For our boys — our sons and men ! 
 
 Welcome home ! Eternal glory 
 
 Crowns the nation whose weal you have cherished. 
 
 Welcome home ! Repeat the story 
 
 Of a duty done so well. 
 
 Welcome home ! Your task is over. 
 
 Till the last of your race has perished, 
 
 Of your gallant defense of your nation's right, 
 
 Sons of men will love to tell. 
 
A Tribute 
 
 The following lines were suggested by the tragic experience of a 
 talented young gentleman who tried again and again to enlist among 
 the combat troops, but was forced at last to accept service behind the 
 lines with a non-combatant division. He died in the service, and some 
 wonderfully fine verses found among his papers- revealed his spirit 
 —a limited service man, with a heart and courage for unlimited 
 achievement. 
 
 A lion heart, by fate decreed 
 To go through life, and be denied 
 The joy that comes from mighty deed. 
 Of hero size, and yet he died 
 Unknown to fame; his will to lead, 
 Unnoticed, cast aside. 
 
 In vain he sought to serve his state 
 Where warriors meet — where battles roar. 
 Grim war's decree, unkindly fate. 
 Denied his quest and barred the door, 
 Except to limited, sedate 
 And thankless service — nothing more. 
 
 A warrior spirit, doomed to fret 
 
 Behind the lines in lowly sphere : 
 
 A service commonplace, and yet 
 
 He served with pride ; his record clear. 
 
 Why should we grieve with vain regret? 
 
 Revealed he stands, a warrior's peer. 
 
 Do souls of men just melt away 
 Like dewdrops under summer's sun? 
 Does death conclude the spirit's sway. 
 Or has its life at death begun ? 
 The span of life would scarce repay 
 The birth of souls such race to run. 
 
 Be this our creed: Life's narrow cell 
 Was not designed to circumscribe 
 A soul's ambition. He who fell 
 Belonged by right to warrior tribe. 
 The angels yonder, who can tell? 
 On warrior rolls his name inscribe. 
 
The Quest 
 
 Peter William Tectimseh Guy Mortimer Brown, 
 
 (He was called Peter Guy by the folks of the town) 
 
 Was a diligent reader and searcher for news, 
 
 And on every topic he bristled with views. 
 
 He read city papers and country ones too ; 
 
 He was fond of athletics ; the market he knew. 
 
 But he searched them in vain for a thought of true 
 
 worth, 
 And he said "Has the Editor vanished from earth?" 
 
 To make sure he was right he decided to go 
 
 And investigate houses where newspapers grow. 
 
 So he went to the Journal or Tribune or News, 
 
 Or the Pioneer Press, or the Post if you choose, 
 
 (For you know this Tecumseh Guy Mortimer Brown 
 
 Is a character common in every town) 
 
 And he drifted right through from the roof to the 
 
 ground. 
 You'll be shocked when I tell you what Mortimer 
 
 found. 
 
 There were great printing presses and type-casting 
 
 things. 
 With a few old compositors, 'round whom there clings 
 Quite an atmosphere mystic — reminding of days 
 When the newspapers moulded and guided our ways. 
 There were "devils" and messengers, typists and 
 
 clerks. 
 And a room where the artist pretends that he works, 
 But the man who gets "ads" from the stores — though 
 
 unseen. 
 Is the boss of this great advertising machine. 
 
In a room set apart for reporters he found, 
 Quite a lot of young fellows just loafing around. 
 (Though he freely admitted they had the right stuff 
 And could wield mighty pens if encouraged enough.) 
 There were some they call "editors" — why I don't 
 
 know, 
 For they spend all their time making room for the flow 
 Of weird advertisements. Of thoughts they have few. 
 Except commonplaces — presented as new. 
 
 Soon he came to a place quite apart from the rest, 
 Labeled "Managing Editor." Finding his quest 
 Led him to it, he knocked and presented his case 
 To the keeper, who took him right into the place. 
 "Tell me, pray," said our Guy to the man at the desk, 
 "Why, in all this assemblage of things picturesque. 
 You've employed every thing with the greatest of 
 
 pains, 
 Except independent and untramelled brains?" 
 
 Then the man took a match, and he scratched it and lit 
 A long black cigarette — then he smoked it a bit. 
 While he owlishly surveyed Guy Mortimer Brown, 
 Till at last he replied, with a shrug and a frown,— 
 "My young friend, don't you know in the newspaper 
 
 field 
 Nothing counts but the stufif that will bring the most 
 
 yield. 
 Advertising, my friend, is the work of the Press. 
 Nothing harmful to trade dare we ever profess." 
 
 Peter William Tecumseh Guy Mortimer Brown, 
 Groped his way to the steps, then he staggered on 
 
 down 
 Till he came to the street, where he turned and looked 
 
 back 
 
At the home of the newspaper, filled with its clack. 
 With the bedlam of noises and fuss in his ear, 
 He said, "Now, I own, it is perfectly clear 
 That so long as the merchants demand all the space 
 No expression of thought has a chance round the 
 place." 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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