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Title: The Pacifist, and other poems

Author: Howard Futhey Brinton

Release date: December 6, 2021 [eBook #66892]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PACIFIST, AND OTHER POEMS ***

THE PACIFIST

And Other Poems

HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON

Printer logo'

BOSTON
THE GORHAM PRESS MCMXVIII

Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton

All Rights Reserved

MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.

TO

THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,

AND

WILLIAM MacFUNN BAIRD

CONTENTS
PAGE
The Pacifist	9
“Adam’s Apple”	11
Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar	12
Breaking In	15
La Reve	16
Sol	17
The Poor Man’s Club	18
Retrospect	20
On “Gungha Din”	21
Why?	22
Barney	23
Come, Little Girl	24
I’ll Come, Little Boy	25
Chenoweth	26
You Wonder	28
In “Del’s”	29
The Mother	30
Jumbo’s Dream	31
The Blues	33
The “I Told You So Club”	34
E Pluribus	37
The Man About Town	39
Elk Creek	40
How the Village Canard Started	41
The Spring Violet	44
Sandy Flash	45
The New Suit	46
The Libertine	47
The Liberty Cornet Band	48
The Periodic	50
Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase	51
The Legend of Deborah’s Rock	52
The Actor-Man	54
The Gangster	55
Tom	58
La Langue Anglaise	59
Ne’er More	60
When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town	61

THE PACIFIST

In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt,

A strain of the strong Saxon thew;

From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South—

An American type through and through.

A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say,

Who lived in the far remote past,—

An unpractical man and careless forsooth;

Inclined as a youth to be fast.

He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats,

And once on a time rolled the dice,

But heart like an ox and muscled like steel;

A dreamer? Yes, without price.

He filled no great niche in the town where he lived,

Was never considered worth while.

The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky

And mentioned his name with a smile,

An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin,

A smile that was snaky and sly.

They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club,

But could damn with the lift of an eye.

The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land,

And threatened invasion seemed near.

The hand of the patriot went to the sword;

The pacifist muttered in fear;

He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground

Down hard by the burden of Thor,

Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates;

Conscription did curse and abhor.

Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife

Where the roar of the guns rose and fell;

Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause

As he fought like a demon of hell.

They builded a shaft in the town of his birth

To the rascally skin and the beat

Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food,

A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat

Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war,

Contributed largely of speech

And words of advice to the youth thereabouts—

His pacifist face was a ‘screech’,

Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept

Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame;

No tablet recited the list of his deeds,

Nor blazoned the worth of his name.

He died as men do who answer the call

With boots on and pierced to the heart;

He died and those lived who, sneering at him,

Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart;

Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood,

Not unwilling a country to sell;

Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf—

The opal-eyed vampires of hell!

“ADAM’S APPLE”

Said Eve to “hub” Adam:

“My dear, what’s the matter?

Your eyes are all bulging;

Your teeth all a chatter.

That lump in your throat, dear,

Speak, Adam!” she muttered.

“Ad” gasped for his breath,

And spluttered and spluttered,

Then breathed more at ease;

Congestion releasing

Its hold, he looked normal,

But frowns his face creasing,

He paused before speaking:

“Eve, list while I chatter;

I’ve most choked to death, see?

The cause of the matter

Was eating your apple,

Esophagus cloying,

That Forbidden Fruit

My life most destroying.”

Now if we’re believing

In stuff that’s prenatal,

We plain see the reason

Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal

Big lumps all a bulging,

Their cervicals craning,—

’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault,

Heredity’s (s) training,

That lump in their throats just

Keeps sticking and sticking.

“Adam’s Apple” Eve called it,

But Eve did the picking.

MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR

There’s a quaint and care-free tavern

In the heart of business life,

In the Quaker City’s centre,—

Where relaxation’s rife.

’Tis a melting pot and leveler

For the man who has a ‘bump’,

Or the one with trouble burdened

Like a dromedary’s hump.

One finds parry and riposte rare

Unto the nth degree,

And Barney Bright, the Irish wight,

Who orders “darks” for me.

Here Andrew Jackson Johnson,

Or MacDee, with savoir faire,

Smooths down the foolish talker

Who wildly pounds the air.

Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”—

MacDee, I mean—the two

Have often smoothed the ruffled path

For you and me and you.

Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel

Disports in ornate phrase,

And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’

Descants Bohemia’s ways

Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell,

Of famed blue-grass renown,

Exploits the perfect luxury

Of bourbon trickling down.

And so, ad infinitum,

From out the clouds of smoke,

Away from tribulation,

We laugh and jest and joke.

Now far as I have wandered,

At home, abroad, afar,

I’ve never seen the equal

Of Bill MacDee’s cigar.

Its shape just at the lighting

Is like Zeppelin’s air craft;

’Tis round and rolled so nicely

And pointed fore and aft;

It faithfully interprets,

In rising rings of smoke,

Each psychologic moment,

Each point and pass and poke.

Now when it’s smooth and rounded

Mac’s camping on the trail

Of something that’s been mooted,

And works his mental flail.

This cautious Scottish Quaker’s

“I see” means “I’ve a hunch”;

He’s sparring for an opening

Before he hands a punch,

But just before he counters

While listening to us “spar,”

You will never see the equal

Of good, old Mac’s cigar.

It’s whirled round like a cyclone;

It’s feathered like an owl;

It’s mussed up like a scrap can

Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.

It’s frayed and furred and serrate;

It’s toothed and torn and spurred;

It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged,

And this is what’s occurred;

Chaotic conversation

A figure needs, you know,

A metaphor or something

Interpreting its flow;

To visualize its looseness,

Its academic “punk”

From Literary Digests;

Its casuistic “bunk.”

And so when I’m relaxing,

And talking wild and far,

I catch my real reflection

In Bill MacDee’s cigar.

I trust that it may “fumer,”

Frayed, frazzled old cheroot,

For many years of joy for Mac,

With other things to boot.

And when I’ve run my gamut

And am “crossing of the bar,”

I hope to see a-glowing

The end of Mac’s cigar.

I called on the editor,

A story in my grip.

I laid it down before him,

Then bethought me of some quip,

Some turn of conversation,

Some “jolly” or some speech,

A sesame or something

By which I’d surely reach

And pink him in the vitals

Of sympathy and such

Emotionals and interest,

And volunteered this much:

“I feel I have a FUTURE

In writing, don’t you see,

In enlightening the public

With prose and poetry!”

I waited a few minutes

Until the tale he’d read,

He looked at me acutely

With horoscopic dread.

“You feel you have a FUTURE

In writing, then,” he sneered.

“You’d better get a PAST, sir,”

Was all he volunteered.

(Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late
David Graham Phillips.)

The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams,

Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams,

Her delicate touch to soothe me the while,

Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.

I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems;

It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.

“Solomon, young, full of pep”—

I’m quoting one Burney C.

“With all the gay blades kept step

Gay Lothario he.

Solomon withered and old,

Filled to the brim with ennui,

Tired of the gay life and bold,

Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”

THE POOR MAN’S CLUB

The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place,

Neither fashionable, swift nor slow,

A kindly, rare, psychological spot,

As those who frequent it well know.

It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan

Which is sane and destructive to fear.

You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself,

And expand in democracy’s cheer.

Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse

For a rare metaphysical “bee.”

“Missourians” they, with a look which conveys:

“My friend, you will have to show me.”

No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust,

No skeptical look nor a sneer,

Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance,

Then “welcome here without fear.”

The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind;

I opine it dislikes the “know

It all” sort, the artistically weird,

Still more it detests the blow.

It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks

And the man who tries to droll.

It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad

As it would a plain damned fool.

In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri

Or a melting pot, you know,

For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all,

Or flotsam who just come and go.

Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place

For the man with mental bumps.

Its light and cheer are just the best boost

For the one who’s in the dumps.

Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch,

It smooths for the man who’s down,

And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick

Of a patronizing frown.

So if some night you are all out of sorts

And don’t know what to do,

Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club,

And let me present to you

First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope”

And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,”

Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,”

And then you can have your fill

Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up

And kindly repartee,

In the night you spend in parry and tierce

At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”

(Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).

She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,

And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”

There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,

And the savor of health as she passes you by.

Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,

And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.

I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,

The impress she made on me, the old bore,

As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,

With a touch of the roguish, a wonderful glow

In her exquisite eyes never equaled as yet.

They’ve haunted me since and I’ll never forget

That touch of the roguish, that wonderful glow

In her exquisite eyes on that night long ago.

ON “GUNGHA DIN”

Have you ever heard Schaffer declaim of old “Din,”

“Din,” “Gungha Din,”

He gives all its savors,

Its turns and its quavers

And all the camp flavors

Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin

On “Din,” “Gungha Din,”

He catches its chiming,

Its scanning and rhyming,

And the depth of repining

In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in

To “Din,” “Gungha Din!”

You hear bullets flying

And screeching, men sighing

When Schaffer is plying

His “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

If some night you hear a real terrible din

After “Din,” “Gungha Din!”

You’ll know they’re applauding

And cheering and lauding

Old Schaffer marauding

Through “Din,” “Gungha Din.”

What a glance in your sweet, soulful eyes!

What a tilt to your nose, just above

The moue to your lips, that is charming.

Your delicate ears, sweet, I love!

I’ll love you, my wee girl, forever;

With the strength of my soul, I will do

The best I can plan for you, darling,

And why? Why because, dear, you’re you!

Have you ne’er heard of Barney?

Come, none of your blarney;

You’ve ne’er heard of Barney, the wight?

He’s a real Celt; he’s witty;

He lives in this city,

And waits at Meran’s every night.

There once ’rose the question

Midst mental congestion

Produced by ‘Vin Ordinaire;’

“What shape is this world here,

Round, ovoid, spheroidal,

Elliptical, nut-shaped or square?”

After hopeless arraignment,

With well-done containment,

One called on old Barney so that

He might judge the matter—

To ease up the clatter,

And put a quick end to the spat.

“I’ve thought and I’ve wondered,”

Said Barney, “I’ve pondered,

To see, sir, just where I was at.

The world is not round, sir,

For I’ve always found, sir,

Whenever I hit it, ’twas flat.”

COME, LITTLE GIRL

Oh, come, little girl, and play with me

For I would be your little boy.

We will never grow old, little girl, at all;

We’ll hop, skip and jump and play with a ball:

We’ll frolic, and laugh and climb the trees tall,

Just you, little girl, and I.

Oh, come, little girl and play with me,

For I would be your little boy.

We’ll make believe cats and doggies and things

Are elephants, lions and eagles with wings;

We’ll dream in the woods, where the waterfall sings,

Just you, little girl, and I.

Oh, come, little girl and play with me,

For I would be your little boy.

We’ll make believe you, little girl, and I

Are married some day, and then by and by,

We’ll buy paper kiddies, and croon “lullaby,”

Just you, little girl, and I.

Do come little girl, please play with me,

For I must be your little boy

We’ll build a sweet house, little girl, our own,

Of sassafras wood, and birch, and stone;

We’ll bake big mud pies, and cookies and pome,

You, sweet little girl, and I.

I’LL COME, LITTLE BOY

I’ll come and play with you, little boy,

For I would be your little girl.

We’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll play and we’ll sing;

We’ll just pretend lake down by the old spring,

And toss ourselves high in the old willow swing,

Just you, little boy, and I.

Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,

For I would be your little girl.

I’ll bring my sweet kitties and doggies and “Ted”,

The little brown bear, with the cute little head,

And we’ll sing them to sleep in a wee trundle bed,

Just you, little boy, and I.

Oh! I’ll come and play with you, little boy,

For I would be your little girl.

We’ll sit by the brook where the cataract calls;

And make believe, down by the Silver Thread Falls,

That we’re on a honeymoon, like Grandma Mauls,

Just you, little boy, and I.

Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,

For I must be your little girl.

I’ll cook in an oven of clay and of loam;

I’ll kiss you, dear boy, whene’er you come home,

And then you’ll kiss me, little boy, all my own,

Just you, little boy, and I.

I’ve followed athletes’ foibles since Walter Camp began

To pick foot-ball immortals for “The All-American,”

But close as I’ve observed them at home, abroad, afar,

I’m sure that “Texas” Chenoweth is easily the star

Of all elusive “quarters” who ever tried to squirm

On foot-ball field deceptive; on footing wet or firm.

He twists just like a serpent; he’s cunning as a fox;

He runs as from a creditor; he’s mighty hard to box.

He’s slippery as an oyster; he’s fleeter than a deer;

He dodges like a debtor; he jumps now there, now here.

I’ve seen DeSaulles cavorting from this goal unto that;

To “Phil” King I’ve paid homage; to Daly doffed my hat.

“Brown’s” Sprackling was a wonder; Carl Williams was a peach;

To Poe, finesse in foot-ball was very hard to teach.

Out West there was a wonder named Walter Eckersall;

Old Bray, the Easton wonder, was a terror with the ball.

And so, ad infinitum, I might enumerate

The gamut of the heroes who really scintillate

In firmament of foot-ball, the king of out-door sport,

When put to the defensive, to really show one’s forte,

But in quaffing to those heroes who’re destined e’er to shine,

Or in toasting to great “quarters” in retrospective wine,

I’ll just defer to Kipling and attempt to plagiarize

Those lines of his so potent, and not philosophize

Here’s to ’Weth, ’Weth, ’Weth, Chenoweth,

You doughty little “quarter,” get your breath,

Though they’ve tackled, mauled and flayed you,

And in Earth’s dank mud have laid you,

You’ve “got ’em shooting ducks,” “Tex” Chenoweth.

Philadelphia Lehigh Club “NEWS,”
January 1914.

You wonder, you surmise,

And with imploring eyes,

You ask me: “Will you always love me so?”

Your soul is searching mine,

While your trembling lips make sign

To ask me “Will you always love me so?”

Your soul is all afire,

With that questioning desire

To ask me: “Will you always love me so?”

But your pride bids you keep still,

And you force me by sheer will

To tell you: “I will always love you so.”

IN “DEL’S”

In the rich warm light,

We sat one night

At dear Delmonico’s.

The menu there,

With dishes rare,

Hints gastronomic throes.

She scanned it down,

’Twixt smile and frown,

And then expressed a wish

To try some quails

And Newburg snails—

The last a dainty dish.

New York her “town,”

On which we frown

In Philadelphia slow,

I’ve ever heard

Of eating snails, you know.

With just a touch

Of thin-veiled irony,

And then she said,

With turn of head,

While smiling quizzically:

“In Quaker town,

Of great renown,

They tell me they’re so slow,

They don’t eat snail

Because they fail

To catch them. Is it so?”

Ah! for one look at you,

Dear baby mine.

Ah! just to fondle you,

Croon you a rhyme.

Ah! for the eyes of you,

Dear little pearl.

Ah! just to love you,

JUMBO’S DREAM

“Listen, my children, and you shall here,”

Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,”

But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine,

Who measured standing say nine feet nine,—

His dream of the animals at the Zoo.

Of course you know them just as I do;

The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear,

Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care

To hear of what the animals planned

In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand

Scheme together down by the pond;

Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond—

A plan to learn the human way

Of learning and playing, et cetera.

A college they wanted with flags and cheers

Like Yale and Harvard—you know, my dears.

First, old Jumbo called for order there

By the old swan pond; he held the chair.

He looked them over with kindly eye

Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry

Proposed that they have a college grand—

Professors and such, and a college band,

With college colors; but first a yell

Like the college boys; for he knew full well

That a college cheer by the animals there

Would wonderful be beyond compare.

He straightway appointed of parrots five

To choose a cheer real loud and live

To start off their college so grand and fine

In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.

The parrot committee composed a cheer;

It went exactly like this, my dear:

“Hiss, squeal, roar,

Roar, roar, more,

Grunt, yell, chatter;

Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.”

They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time;

The parrots leading the cheering line;

A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise,

Fifty times worse than the college boys,

For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal;

The lion would roar till one could feel

The ground all tremble from noise he made

Like soldiers marching on dress parade;

The hyena let out such a mighty yell

That the leaves most off the branches fell;

The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter,

And all for college and alma mater.

“’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad—,

For the cheer was really “righty” bad.

He looked discouraged, with face awry,

While a tear appeared in each small eye;

He heaved a big sigh, then looking around—

Awakened all trembling upon the ground.

So ended his dream of a college fine,

With parrots leading the cheering line.

He looked at his keeper as if to say:

“I’ll never again eat a bale of hay;

For such overeating most always means

The most impossible kind of dreams.

Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack,

With the kiddies a-hanging on my back;

With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say,

On my big broad back the livelong day.”

If you’ve ever a “grouch,” little girl,

And your brain is all twisted and torn;

If your nerves are all racked, little girl,

And the world looks all blue and forlorn;

Don’t commune with yourself, little girl,

But just let me share it, please do,

For I’m part of you, my little girl,

And I love you, dear heart, yes, I do.

THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”

Old Winchester borough, in thriftiness thorough,

Sits ninety miles back from the sea;

’Tis famed for its learning and all things concerning

Its people of high pedigree.

Now some are quite clever, some brainy, scarce ever

Are any thick-witted and “fat”;

None over-contented, yet mighty well vented;

Real satisfied, passe and pat.

The world all around may astound, not confound them;

“They’re there” in their insular way;

You may laughingly drool them; but trip them or fool them;

If you do they’ll admit it? Not they!

Its dames real exclusive, though slightly abusive,

Just deft subterranean digs.

You can’t analyze them (noblesse), nor despise them,

These quaint and bizarre periwigs.

Now once I remember, ’twas late in November,

A handsome young blade struck the town;

Distingué he was this bold rusher, this crusher;

He did up us rural swains brown;

His hair was so curly, complexion so pearly;

His eyes flashed a real soulful glow;

He’d ancestors famous and average and heinous,

Of the last though he spoke “sotto vo.”

By profession a drummer, this hummer, this stunner;

The mesdames and misses cast looks

Of wild admiration and praise, adulation,

As he glibly and smoothly talked books.

When he’d quote a good rhyme or distich, they opine;

Their souls all mesmerized, torn,

“That say what you will, he cast doubts willy-nilly,

Is sure to the real manner born.”

They smiled on and wined him and frequently dined him,

Which quite put a crimp in us beaux;

Who all became hectic, enraged, apoplectic,

As we found ourselves not comme il faut.

We planned and we wondered and craftily pondered

A plan of reprisal for quits,

Then we thought if we waited real patient, more sated,

We’d be than to throw fifty fits.

No haste and bad temper, not even a whimper;

We’d watch and we’d wait and we’d hope;

We’d give him good tether, the stuffer, the bluffer,

He’d hang himself high with the rope.

Now slow was the turning, and with envy burning,

We waited long weeks for his crown,

When early one morning we heard, without warning

He’d quickly and darkly left town.

A check ’twas that threw him, became his undoing

With Winchester’s creme de la creme.

There was weeping and wailing and very much railing;

“His likes just had never been seen.”

Now when tea-pots were boiling; the mesdames were spoiling

To square themselves—and not to squirm;

With demoiselles mustered round tea cups they blustered:

“I told you so,” each one in turn.

“I sensed he was nothin’,” said portly Miss Tuffin;

“I mistrusted,” said thin Aunty Gray.

“I somehow got thinkin’,” said Grandma a-blinkin’;

“He warn’t all he should be, that jay.”

“I had intuitions, like needles in cushions,”

Observed Ann, the good parson’s wife;

“Same as me,” yapped sour Fanny; “I knowed ye did, Annie;”

“Me too,” offered Miss Tilly Clife.

“I told you so,” each one to this one, to that one;

“I told you so,” chimed one and all.

They’d never admit he’d deceived them nor peeved them.

Nor out of them taken a fall.

We snubbed swains laughed loudly, yet held ourselves proudly;

We stood real aloof for a while.

Things must have an ending; so slowly unbending

We’d spar with a frown or a smile.

The entente came duly, if slowly, but truly,

And at last all were quite en rapport.

We dined well and wined well, and then all opined: “Well,

We’d forgive and forget the old score.”

Not Eve’s daughters only, but Adam’s sons lonely

Are hipped on their judgment of men;

They think they have got them, can size them or spot them,

But mostly they don’t. Dinna ken?

Some have sung of the days in Vienna,

And others the strains “Wacht am Rhein;”

Men have mellowed to old Finnish folk tunes,

Kept step to Bavarian rhyme.

Old Madrid set our Spanish friends boasting:

Hungarian songs we’ve heard, too,

Yet, spite of the singing and toasting,

They live under Red, White and Blue.

They never go back to Vienna

Nor foregather again on the Rhine;

Have ne’er seen their kin in bleak Finland

Nor been o’er Bavarian line.

They’re not in Madrid when they’re boasting;

In Hungary things might not ring true.

All fine are the singing and toasting,

But they live under Red, White and Blue.

The Old World says we are commercial,

Yet “a dollar’s a dollar,” they say.

Have done with your “green eyes,” my brothers,

For world o’er achievement holds sway.

Come, cease your irrational boasting,

And stand by the land sought by you;

Then when you are singing and toasting,

Sing, sing for the Red, White and Blue,

From the Somme comes democracy’s pleading;

The Thames takes up the refrain.

The Scotch and the Irish are struggling;

Brave Canada’s not called in vain.

The Flemish not yielding or boasting;

Proud Portugal fights her way through.

And Italy’s brave sons we’re toasting,

We’re coming, the Red, White and Blue.

We’ll ne’er crook to yoke of a master;

To superman never pay toll;

We’ll never bow down like a vassal;

No, better the hemlock, the bowl!

The cause of humanity’s calling.

Take heart, we have heard it; we’re true;

For that cause brave men are now falling,

The men of the Red, White, and Blue.