farmers hold their wheat,
While children suffer hunger,
And workmen walk the street?

That land is doomed already
To black, unending night,
Whose old men worship money;
Whose young men will not fight.

O, for some John the Baptist!
Some prophet Malachi,
To lash our selfish conscience,
And teach us purpose high.

* * * * *

Thank Heaven there's a remnant,
A few not quite enslaved,
For ten just men in Sodom,
The city would have saved.

A CALL TO THE COLORS

November, 1915

Ye strong young men of Huron,
Ye sons of Britons true,
Your fathers fought for freedom,
And now it's up to you;
Your brother's blood is calling,
For you they fought and died,
Brave boys with souls unconquered,
By Huns are crucified.

Ten million Hunnish outlaws,
The Kaiser's tools and slaves,
Have strewn the sea with corpses,
And scarred the earth with graves;
They know no god but mammon;
No law but sword and flame,
They crush the weaker peoples,
With deeds we dare not name.

See Belgium rent and bleeding,
The Kaiser's hellish work,
Armenia vainly pleading
For mercy from the Turk.
The Poles and Serbs are dying
The victims of the Huns,
With anguished voices crying,
"O send us men and guns!"

Think of the Lusitania,
Of martyred Nurse Cavell,
Then say, "Can these be human
Who act like fiends of hell."
The Empire's in the conflict,
And bound to see it through;
Each man the old flag shelters,
Must share the burden too.

Then rise, ye sons of Huron,
All hell has broken loose,
The Kaiser's strafe is on us,
With him we make no truce.
Come, rally to the colors
Till victory is won,
Your King and country need you,
And duty must be done.

CHOOSE YE

In times like these, each heart decrees
A law unto itself;
What shall it be for you and me,
Self sacrifice or pelf?
Which shall we choose, to win or lose?
Our all is in the game:
What shall we give that Truth may live?
How much in Freedom's name?

A hero's heart, an honored name,
Or coward's part, and shirker's shame?
The awful strife, wounds and disease,
Or sordid life of selfish ease?
An open pur