Classic Poem

Not ours to marshal, rank on rank,
The might a Kaiser wields;
Not ours the harvest of the Frank
On rifle-pitted fields:
But we have fought, and we have won
As never wins the sword;
And now that our good war is done,
We humbly thank the Lord.

Prepare the feast and let us sing
Of how the foe we slew;
How on a bleak frontier of Spring
We ran our trenches true;
How, trudging through the harrow smoke,
Went forth our army leaders;
And how the golden volleys broke
From batteries of seeders.

The King Most High was our ally.
What drilling and recruiting!
How thronged the glades and hills with blades!
What eagerness for shooting!
And when, midmost the June campaign,
Old Drought swooped in to plunder,
How charged the lancers of the rain!
What cannonade of thunder!

Well may we boast; our wheaten host
Outnumbered all the Russians;
Our plumed corn might laugh to scorn
The Uhlans of the Prussians!
They seek a ghastly triumph now;
Our victories are kinder.
God bless the good old twelve-inch plow
And automatic binder!

Lo, where like stacked triumphant arms
The corn shocks dot yon rise!
Let golden bombs on all the farms
Now burst in pumpkin pies!
And let us sing, for we have won
As never wins the sword;
And now that our good fight is done,
Be praises to the Lord!