: With the Colors Songs of the American Service by Appleton Everard Jack - World War 1914-1918 Poetry Bestsellers American 1895-1923

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e wrecks.... Before they could begin There tumbled out the mud-caked man, Whose mouth was shot away; A man who stared like some wild beast Finally brought to bay; For Briggs, Base Eight, American, Had brought A German officer, half drunk For need of rest! who swore And cried, and then sank back again And fell asleep.... That's why They've decorated little Briggs-- Red-headed, tall, and shy!

I wonder if you know him? A slim and quiet kid, Red-headed, tall, and soft of speech and glance; He doesn't like to have you talk about the thing he did-- And yet he's got a medal from the Government of France.

THE PENGUIN DRIVER

At home, he drove a taxi, A job he'd now disdain; He's learning To drive an aeroplane. It doesn't fly--it glumps along And bumps him, ev'ry chance; His tumbling, rumbling "Penguin" Out there--Somewhere in France.

It isn't fun to drive it, But he's not out for fun; He's going to learn to drop good bombs Upon the no-good Hun! And so, until he graduates, He makes his Penguin prance-- His bumping, jumping Penguin Out there--Somewhere in France.

As soon as he's a pilot, He'll take the air on high, you bet And do some bully things! The Prussians will be sorry He ever learned to dance With a rearing, tearing Penguin Out there--Somewhere in France.

WAITIN'

Back of the Front in this durn trainin' camp, Day after day we are stuck, an' we swear Whenever we hear th' regular tramp Of th' men who are through and are goin' somewhere. We're all of us willin', but why keep us drillin' Forever?... Just waitin' for somethin' to do!

At home they are readin' th' outlandish name Of a battle that's won or a hero that's dead Of a stunt that had won him a place in this Game-- But all that I've won is a cold in my head! While others are fightin' we're readin' or writin'-- An' the censors will see that it don't get to you!

We long for a scrap that will sizzle the blood; We hone for a chance to bust in a head; This marchin' an' diggin' in acres of mud Ain't as excitin' as bein' plain dead. War may be a curse, but this here is worse-- This dreamin' th' dreams that never come true.

All set for a mix-up that we can't begin; Ready and anxious for whatever comes, We're linked to the side-lines.... Ain't it a sin, Spendin' good hours a-twiddlin' thumbs? Seems like a crime to waste so much time A-waitin'--an' waitin'! You'd find it so, too.

WE'RE ALL RIGHT HERE!

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