Classic Poem

War-weary poilus backward trek
To trenches and barb-wires—
Eighteen miles from Paris—
To die for loved home-fires;
Arrested by a wave of song,
They hear: “The Yanks are coming!”
Behold! Eight thousand “Devil Dogs”
March on! To “drums rum-tumming.”

A racing motor speeding
Brings orders now from Foch:—
“Retreat when you have covered us,
Nothing can stop the Boche.”
Marines march on, still singing—
“To H—l with retreat”, said Wise,
“The Boches will be retreating—
We just got here”, he cries.

Near Meaux they met the Prussian,
June first, Nineteen-Eighteen,
The sun rose on a beaten France,
To be redeemed by even.
The Prussian coming swiftly—
Quite sure of victory;
Gripped with the Fifth and Sixth Marines—
His valedictory!

The Devil Dogs, victorious,
Pressed into Belleau Wood.
Breasting its nests of death, they rushed
The gunners where they stood.
Poilus and Pennsylvanians
Joined them to faze the Hun,
They drove him headlong running—
They kept him on the run.

The French in admiration,
For our brave martyr band,
Renamed the Wood—“Marines' Brigade”;
So long as it will stand—
Each tree will represent a man
Who gave his life, to stay
The Hórde of Huns, whose mighty force
Was turned back there that day.