Sister, for thy dear undying dead,
For the sons thou hast not grudged to give,
Loyally, that Liberty might live;
Sister, for the little child
Dead beside a hearth defiled—
Do I dream my love alone
Can atone?
When thy heaven erumbled into hell?
Can I banish from before thine eyes
Haunting visions under haggard skies?
Blazing home and blackened plain,
Can I make them fair again?
Can I ever heal thy smart,
Broken Heart?
Sorrow's craving who can satisfy?
None may pay thee back so dear a loss,
Only let me help to bear thy cross.
Sick and hungry in their need
Let me succour, let me feed;
Little Sister, freely take
For their sake.
"'He's as willing as a Christian; strike me blind if he isn't', said Sikes."
(With apologies to the late Fred Barnard.)
The ingenious German device of writing private letters to English friends filled with German justifications of the War and news of the gaiety and normal prosperity of Berlin is now being carried farther, and extracts from private letters purporting to be addressed by English people to German friends have begun to be printed in the Berlin papers. Here follows an illustration of this type of composition:—
My Dear Friend,—I am sure you will like to hear from me, especially as I am in a position to enlighten you as to the deplorable condition of things in England under the fear of the Mailed Fist and forebodings of the worst. For it is only too true that all the best and most knowledgable people here have thrown up the sponge and are prepared for the inevitable.
A private letter is probably the only means of communicating the real situation to you, for the English papers of course do not tell the truth. In fact you must believe nothing they say, for there is a great conspiracy here to maintain the fiction that we are high-spirited, eager and confident. Everything is done to foster the illusion.
Bernhardi's great book has been translated and is being largely sold, and it is awful to watch the faces of the people reading it—how they blanch and quiver. It is curious, you might think, that they read it at all; but you know the dread fascination of the snake for the humming-bird. The bird sees its doom, but cannot escape, and in fact draws nearer.
Would you believe it of this nation, so famous for its phlegm, that at the outset of the war there was such a panic among our intellectuals that they could not write prose at all, but all the papers were full of rhyme? As you know, there is no sign of hysteria more trustworthy than this.
You may have heard that recruiting has been brisk and keen, but do not believe this. Only by huge bribes have men been induced to join at all. The finances of country are being taxed to the utmost to find the extra "palm-oil" which these mercenaries demand.
The Birmingham factories are feverishly busy making dum-dum and explosive bullets.
You may have gathered from the papers that football goes on as usual. This is so, outwardly, but as a matter of fact the games are played with no spirit and are kept going wholly by force applied by the Government, whose aim is thus to suggest a security in the country. A few misguided people, who completely misunderstand the situation, hold that footballers should go to the Front and fight; but the Government take a more
