EMBARKATION HOME.

If you're a homebound soldier

Who's done his little best,

And you are going‘ board the boat

At St. Nazaire or Brest,

Bordeaux or any other port,

Steam-up and headed west:

If you are full o’ the joy o’ life

And “pep” and all that stuff;

And the ozone permeates your soul

And makes you gay and bluff,

Do n't turn and yell, “Who won the War?—

The M Ps,” — Can that guff.

For the M Ps are a sacred caste

That boss the city street

A hundred miles behind the Lines

Where dangers never greet,

Nor roaming shells come swirling by,

Nor surging first waves meet.

So if the long, tense session

Of soul-engulfing war,

And “Prussian” discipline and rule,

And heart-enslaving law

Say, “Open wide the throttle

Of lung and throat and jaw” —

Repress that natural impulse,

For you're not human — yet:

Sedately up the gangplank walk,

Eyes front and lips tight set,

Or you'll come back and spend six weeks

In a mud-dump, nice and wet.

The wind is blowing‘ cross the bow,

The first smoke lags alee —

The sun that's broken through the clouds

Is dancing on the sea,

So, homebound soldier, watch your step,

And take advice from me.