(by W.G. Young, Cypress River, who had three sons serving
My son went up to his post today,
To his place with the signal corps,
And I asked him why he needs must go
From peace to the battle's roar.
And he said : "Dear Dad, you must let me go
I must take my place in this fight;
Or I'd shun my kind as a traitor should,
Who fears to fight for the right."
My son took his place at the wheel today
Of a giant army truck,
To gather the wounded, maimed and dead
From the front line's reddened muck.
And I asked: "Why so anxious to go, my son?"
He replied: "Would you have me stay
And miss the chance to live life out
As it should be lived today?"
My son went to his camp today,
To his post with his gun, the 'Bren',
and I said: "My son, won't you wait awhile,
There are plenty of other men?"
But the look in those clear blue eyes of his,
It thrilled me through and through
As he gave the salute with a click of his heels,
And voiced his earnest view.
"Would you have me waste these precious days
To common, home tasks thrown,
That old men, women or girls might do
Or those who are yellow of bone?
Why, I must go to my place in this 'show'
To bring to this world of ours
The peace and freedom and family pride
It knew in its happier hours,"
So my sons are gone like other men
Who serve in this great crusade.
Their needs must go, as their forebears did,
Clear-eyed and unafraid.
For fight they must, for this world of ours,
In the time of cruel rebirth,
Of the people and things that are reborn
From the wars and strife on earth
For men must fight, and women must toil,
And right its enemies rout,
So I give my sons to the task ahead
As God's great scheme works out.
Rest of us.