PROMOTED 
 
 1916 k 
 
 copva f FROM THE RANKS 
 
 A WAR BALLAD 
 
 ^ 
 
 By MATTHEW CRAIG 
 
PROMOTED 
 FROM THE RANKS 
 
 OR 
 
 THE ODYSSEY OF A BRASS POT 
 A WAR BALLAD 
 
 By MATTHEW CRAIG 
 
 ^ 
 
 AUTHORS CO-OPERATIVE PUB. CO. 
 125 Chvirch St., New York City 
 

 Copyright, 1916 
 By 
 
 MATTHEW CRAIG 
 
Germany's Metal Pots, Pans, 
 
 Kettles, Needed for Army. 
 
 Berlin, via London, July 31 
 (A. P.) — The military authorities 
 of the province of Brandenburg 
 have issued an order expropriating 
 all supplies of copper, brass and 
 nickel. The order covers skillets, 
 pots, pans and kettles in house- 
 holds. These articles may be re- 
 quisitioned until further notice, 
 but must not be sold, destroyed 
 or disposed of in any way. 
 
JAM 15 1916 
 
 4o 
 
 )CI.A418548 
 
PROMOTED FROM THE RANKS 
 
 He was made of sheet copper, of rubicund 
 glow, 
 
 And he hung on the wall of a great chateau 
 
 Many more than a hundred years ago. 
 
 He was part of the revel and high romance, 
 
 The vintage cheer with its measured dance, 
 
 In that stately, far-away time of France. 
 
 The huntsmen's hallali reached where he 
 hung. 
 
 And pastourelle pipes; while harps were 
 strung 
 
 And roundel and gay ballade were sung; 
 
 And odors of capon with truffes saute. 
 
 Of old Bourgogne and of Epernay 
 
 5 
 
Mixed with the strains of the roundelay. 
 
 Till he sang, with a copperine ring, where 
 he stood 
 
 On his iron tripod o'er the crackling wood; 
 
 It was **Vive la joie!" — French for "long 
 live good food." 
 
 Bref, he asked nothing more than here to 
 stay — 
 
 Our casserole friend — till the final day 
 
 When coppers and cooks shall be laid away. 
 
II 
 
 Then one bright morn in the month of 
 May — 
 
 Or of Floreal then it were best to say — 
 
 When apple-blooms, like tapestry, lay 
 
 On the yellow loam of the old verger 
 
 And a seal of peace closed the nestled farms, 
 
 There rose sudden panic with shrill alarms 
 
 From the belfry-tower, wild clatter of arms 
 
 And mounting of horse; for a far cry flew 
 
 Up the dust hidden road: "They come, the 
 
 Our friend, from his kettle-rack on the wall, 
 
 Caught everything and reflected it all; 
 
 How the great bronze gates of the park 
 flung wide, 
 
 How the citizen-soldiers trooped inside 
 
 And, without a blow, the demesne occupied; 
 
 Keys of cellar and wine-vault were yielded 
 up 
 
 7 
 
And Egalite pledged in fraternal cup 
 
 When soldiers and peasants sat down to 
 sup. 
 
 For myrmidons, valets and chef, be it said. 
 
 Had stayed behind when the seigneurie fled. 
 
 Nota: the cjief slept that night in the old 
 
 Count's bed. 
 
 8 
 
Ill 
 
 So it was that our hero happened to go 
 
 To the wars, in the train of the great 
 Marceau, 
 
 Beyond the Rhine and into the Countries 
 Low. 
 
 Those were stirring times; and they stirred 
 him, too. 
 
 Whether 'twas saucr-krctut or hraten or French 
 ragout — 
 
 Which is nothing more complex than Irish 
 stew. 
 
 And always, 'mid cannon and carnage, he 
 bore 
 
 A brave front, a face just as bright as be- 
 fore. 
 
 And show me what hero or war-lord does 
 more. 
 
 When, at last, came peace. His old chef had 
 died; 
 
 His comrades, the kettles, were scattered 
 wide; 
 
 9 
 
He was brought home, a gift, to a sweet 
 Flemish bride; 
 
 Who so furbished and scoured him, with 
 true Flemish might 
 
 And a vigor which made him blush red with 
 delight, 
 
 That you'd' take him for gold in the small 
 candle-light. 
 
 Then again to the rack on a kitchen wall, 
 where 
 
 Hung round-bellied pewter and black earth- 
 enware ; 
 
 He blinked at these last, an aristocrat's 
 stare — 
 
 There are castes in copper as you are aware. 
 
 But n'importe. It was peace and the good 
 man's cheer, 
 
 Good, homely ways and good home-brewed 
 beer, 
 
 Afar from war's passion and frenzy and 
 fear. 
 
 The sun sifted green through the vines at 
 the door 
 
 Putting patches of light on the white 
 sanded floor, 
 
 10 
 
With abundance, content, the birth-right of 
 the poor. 
 
 Till, in time, like ripe pippins, children's 
 faces, 
 
 Capped in the quaintest of Flemish laces. 
 
 Smiled back from his burnished copper 
 spaces. . . . 
 
 And if, in his exile, his heart oft would burn 
 
 For his fair native land, it was like when 
 we yearn 
 
 For our love song of youth which may 
 never return. 
 
 11 
 
IV 
 
 Then dawned a black day, tho' God's sun 
 blessed His earth, 
 
 But it rose on bowed heads, empty fields, 
 stilled mirth 
 
 And on ashes strewn cold in each humble 
 hearth. 
 
 Loud wrack split the sun-light with horror, 
 despair. 
 
 And death came hurtling through the air 
 
 Picking its toll of the young and fair. 
 
 Our veteran knew it, that distant breath 
 
 From the battle's throat which brought 
 them death. 
 
 Through the unsheltered cottage the shot 
 flew wild. 
 
 He caught what he could and turned it aside 
 
 From the breast of the mother who suckled 
 her child, 
 
 From the palsied grandam he had known as 
 a bride. 
 
 13 
 
He fought — giving back with each resound- 
 ing stroke, 
 
 And held till a shell carried all. Blind with 
 smoke, 
 
 He crashed 'neath their home with the dead 
 peasant folk 
 
 To oblivion stunned. . . . 
 
 14 
 
It was bright when he woke. 
 
 Incautious, he stretched — and he ahuost 
 broke , 
 
 He looked. How came he to be in such 
 plight? 
 
 His corpulent girth was diminished, quite, 
 
 And buttoned up snug in a uniform tight. 
 
 In cut like an oblong sort of bell . . . 
 
 He was capped and tipped to a shrapnel 
 shell. 
 
 Great Bellona! ... He asked himself 
 how it befell 
 
 That he, who had boiled with such ardent 
 breath 
 
 That all men should live, must now deal 
 them death. 
 
 "Are not you of the Fatherland?" some- 
 body said 
 
 Close beside him, or under; perchance over- 
 head? 
 
 IS 
 
'T was between him, the part of himself 
 that was lead. 
 
 He shuddered: '*Canaille"; but politely 
 said he, 
 
 For first he was French what e'er else he 
 might be, 
 
 "Of the Fatherland? Yes; but we call it 
 Patrie. '' 
 
 There was time for no more. From his 
 place in the trench. 
 
 He descried, far beyond, the blue lines of 
 the French, 
 
 And his Gallic heart leaped to the fight at 
 the thought 
 
 Of those deep, sodden trenches where brave 
 comrades fought. 
 
 He would reach them, somehow, from this 
 enemy lot. 
 
 He waited. His turn soon to speak, 'mid the 
 shriek 
 
 And shrill and yell of shrapnel and shell 
 
 And stench of fumes in this hideous hell. 
 
 At last. His turn now. With a thrill un- 
 known — 
 
 16 
 
The exile's joy to meet his own — 
 
 He sped; and his shout died in a groan. 
 
 Too late he knew his murderous quest, 
 
 Too late, as he tore on the battle's crest, 
 
 And buried him deep in a Frenchman's 
 breast. 
 
 17 
 
VI 
 
 And is that the end of the tale? Not so, 
 There's a sequel. It happened a week ago. 
 
 Again do the great park gates swing wide 
 
 While car and ambulance speed inside, 
 
 In the old Count's chamber line cots, side by 
 side. 
 
 On turret and terrace the sun slants low 
 
 Flaming the mullions to crimson bars, 
 
 Laying the peace of its afterglow 
 
 On the blood-drenched fields, with their har- 
 vest of wars. 
 
 It circles a halo, like love's mystic spell, 
 
 About two who stand in the great oriel. 
 
 A pale young soldier, a white-capped girl 
 
 Snatch their moment of love from the bat- 
 tle swirl. 
 
 Short is the time. Theirs is love denied — 
 
 War-love — by suffering sanctified, 
 
 19 
 
With Death standing ever close beside. 
 
 Now they say good-bye ere he leave for 
 the strife. 
 
 Close he enfolds her, his day-old wife, 
 
 The girl who has nursed him back to life. 
 
 And brave is* their parting, albeit for years, 
 
 High words and hopeful, unbroken by fears , 
 
 While, courageous as tender, they smile 
 through their tears. 
 
 Yet little reck they of their young love's 
 loss. 
 
 On each brave breast is blazoned the 
 Cross, 
 
 A red-crossed band on her uniform white, 
 
 On his tunic the cross he has won in the 
 
 fight- 
 Like blood drops its jewels hang red in the 
 
 light— 
 
 *'Keep it, sweetheart; and this — soldier 
 gifts to my bride," 
 
 And her smile loosed the tear it had striven 
 to hide 
 
 As she took it, the splinter they'd found in 
 his side. 
 
 20 
 
Twas a fractional bit of the once brilliant 
 whole — 
 
 This veteran rest of our French casserole — 
 
 But he'd lost not one whit of his Gallican 
 soul; 
 
 For he blushed, now, the uttermost scarlet 
 of bliss 
 
 'Neath that warm tear's touch and her pas- 
 sionate kiss. 
 
 Fight and fall by the side of his old Seig- 
 neur's heir! 
 
 Feel the tear and the lips of his liege ladye 
 fair! 
 
 Ah, 'twas "Gloria Victis" aplenty — to spare ! 
 
 Yet more. For again he is destined to go, 
 
 But promoted, how far, from the old ranks 
 below. 
 
 In line to the wall of the proud Chateau 
 
 By the Cross of the Legion, himself a hero. 
 
 21 
 
VII 
 
 She paled as she turned to their farewell 
 embrace 
 
 While the sun to a temple transfigured the 
 place. 
 
 Long and silent he looked in her brave, up- 
 turned face 
 
 Then above, to the grim likenessed line of 
 his race, 
 
 And a moment they bowed their young 
 heads, rev'rently. 
 
 Then his voice like a bugle-call rang, blithe 
 and free : 
 
 (While a cracked copper ring seemed to 
 chime in with glee) 
 
 "Long live our dear France, God, Wife and 
 Patrier 
 
 23 
 
1 TRRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 iii