THE FAVORITE SONG.

They sing a song that the pines of Maine

Hear in the winter's blast —

They sing a song that the riders hum,

Where the cattle plains spread vast;

But there is one they love the most —

And they keep it for the last.

They sing the lays of Puget Sound

Aglimmering in the sun —

Of the cotton fields of Alabam’,

Where the Gulf-bound rivers run,

But one they sing with a wistful look,

When all the rest are done.

They chant of the land of Dixie,

And their “Little Gray Home in the West” —

Of how they'll “can the Kaiser” —

And they roar with bellowing zest;

But one they sing as it were a prayer —

The song they love the best.

From Xivray to Cantigny —

From Soissons to the Meuse —

From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges

Agleam in the dawn's first hues —

They sing a sacred song, for it

Is red with battle-dews.

For it is sanctified by space —

And the cruel wheel of Time;

And sacrifice has hallowed it,

And mellowed every rhyme,

Until it wells from weary throats

A thing men call sublime.

In frozen trench and billet —

In mire, muck and rain —

Where the roar of unleashed batteries

Hurl forth their fires again;

At rest, or back in Blighty,

Torn with shell and pain —

There's a song they dub the fairest —

There's a lilt they love the best —

“There's a long, long trail awinding”

To the haven of their quest,

Where the tip of the rainbow reaches

A land in the golden west.