e cherish the hope some day of returning and
finding our parents, our wives, and our little ones. Yes, that is my
hope, my joyous hope. But to come to that day, so like a dream, we must
be of good cheer. It is only by enduring patience, full of confidence,
that we shall force back our oppressors. To chase away those cursed
Prussians--_Crack_! We need the obus. My captain calling, '_Crack_!
More, still more of those obus!' Giving them the bayonet in the bowels,
we shall chase them clean beyond the Rhine. And our victory will be won
to the waltz of the obus."

It was a song out of the heart of an unconquerable boy. It climbed the
hillock to the top. The response was the answer of men moved. His song
told them why they fought on. There is a Belgium, not under an alien
rule, which the shells have not shattered, and that dear kingdom is
still uninvaded. The mother would rather lose her husband and her son
than lose the France that made them. Their earthly presence is less
precious than the spirit that passed into them out of France. That is
why these weary men continue their fight. The issue will rest in
something more than a matter of mathematics. It is the last stand of the
human spirit.

What is this idea of country, so passionately held, that the women walk
to the city gates with son and husband and send them out to die? It is
the aspect of nature shared in by folk of one blood, an arrangement of
hill and pasture which grew dear from early years, sounds and echoes of
sound that come from remembered places. It is the look of a land that is
your land, the light that flickers in an English lane, the bells that
used to ring in Bruges.

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LA VALSE DES OBUS

I

Chers amis, je vais
Vous chanter des couplets,
Sur la guerre,
A l'Yser.
Pour vous faire savoir,
Que la vie, tous les soirs,
Aux tranchees,
N'est pas gaie.
A peine arrive,
'l Faut aller travailler.
Qu'il fasse noir' ou qu'il y ait clair de lune,
Et sans fair' du bruit,
Nous allons pres de l'ennemi,
Remplir des sacs pour fair' des abris.

Ir et IIe Refrain

Chaqu' fois que nous sommes aux tranchees,
Crack! Il tombe des obus.

Nous sommes tous