And breathe a soft "Good-bye",
Then vanish like the shadows
That lurk among the trees,
The sentry hearing only
The sighing of the breeze.

JACK CANUCK TO UNCLE SAM

April, 1916

Take down your old gun, Uncle Sammy,
All your pockets with cartridges cram;
The war fogs that rise, cold and clammy,
Seem to frighten you some, Uncle Sam.
You once were the first to get ready,
The most eager in Liberty's fight,
Your brain, Unc. was clear, calm and steady,
When you battled for justice and right.

Time was when each star in Old Glory
Shone for freedom all round the wide world.
The winds and the waves told the story
Wheresoever its folds were unfurled;
But now your good rifle is rusty,
All your work of long years is undone.
Old Glory, bedraggled and dusty,
Is insulted and scorned by the Hun.

There once was a time, Uncle Sammy,
When the honor of sister or wife,
E'en that of a poor negro mammy,
You'd defend, Uncle Sam, with your life.
But now, what's the matter I wonder,
You see womanhood treated like junk,
And think but of guarding your plunder:
Can you tell me the reason, dear Unc.?

It seems that your head isn't level,
With your Wilsons, and Bryans and Fords,
You let things all go to the devil,
And protect your poor people with words.
It can't be the killing that vexes,
And prevents you from getting your gun,
You're lynching men now, down in Texas
For one tenth that the Kaiser has done.

SAMMY

April, 1918

Brave Sammy's a fighter, who said he was slow,
That Duffeldorf blighter was running his show?
The fellow who hinted that Sammy was slack,
With praise, now, unstinted, should take it all back;
For Sammy's a wonder, and now going strong,
('Twas Somebody's blunder that held him so long)
He's just the right fellow, we're glad that he came,
The chap that is yellow has some other name.

This Sammy's a dandy; when once in the race,
He makes himself handy in any old place:
Can preach a good sermon, or sing a good song,
Or lick any German who happens along:
A single hand talker, as good as the best,
A two fisted fighter, with hair on his chest,
A long distance hiker, who never goes lame;
He's not any piker whatever the game.

There's no one that