Poems by John R. Hume - 1898-1919
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Dr. Jno. [John] R. Hume
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POEMS by Capt. John R Hume Author Judge Langford, Editor
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DAY DREAMS I love to sit in the twilight dim At the close of the Summer day And watch the lambs in the meadow And the little ones at play And dream of the fair young faces That used to play with me there When I was a child in the meadow And life was free from care. I see in the ghostly twilight When the day begins to lower Those great ancestoral faces From the far off unseen shore Beautiful antique faces The sleep here with nations dead Come trooping down thru the ages With their stately old time tread. There are wonderful stately faces Strong with their old time power Coming rushing in the with the shadows In the hush of the evening hour Great Ancestoral Faces From the battles of other days They sleep in the arms of glory And mine eyes are filled with tears. Beautiful, Saintly faces, Warm with a mother’s love Sweet in their heavenly graces From their beautiful home above And one is my angel mother And her voice comes soft and low And she kisses my brow in the twilight As she did in the long ago. There are sweet angelic faces That we loved in the long ago But this fifty years that we kissed them And we laid them under the snow I loved the old times faces As I did in that distant day When I was a child in the meadows With the little lambs in the play. John Robert HUME Old Piney Ridge Church Near Asheville, N.C. April 5, 1919
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BE DAMNED Though Nations fall and Empires wane Though famine stalks and terror reign Though death and hell and hunger call From squalid hut to castle hall While time here ceaseless course shall run In deepest hell, Lord, sink the Huns. Let demons laugh to hear his cry Let Heaven eternal life deny While vast eternity shall roll Let every Hun from pole to pole From Belgium coast to Darnelle Forever sink to deepest hell. Be damned in life, be damned in death, Be damned each lasting despairing breath Be damned on earth, be damned in heaven Be damned at last to die in shrine Be damned by every right divine. While yet the moon and sun shall roll, Be damned by every human soul; Be damned by every saint above, Be damned by all the host of love. As long as time her race shall run, Forever damned be every Hun. John Robert HUME Soisson, France July 28, 1918
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IF EVER I GET TO HEAVEN If ever I go to Heaven, As I hope some day to go I’ll walk along the golden street An’ look and around fer you I hope at you’ll be waitin’ Not far inside the gate I’ll be brisk about my cousin Nor give ye long to wait I guess it won’t be lonesome Upon that golden shore I know a lot of loved ones That’s gone that way before. I kinder hope they’re waitin’ Fer me to wander in Fer I’ve been long a hopin’ In this pore world of sin I bin prayen an’ a hopin’ That the time would sometime come That I’d be with the others And all be safe at home. They say ‘at there’s singin’ An’ payin’ and prayin’ An’ ambrosial fruits an’ viols an’ bands An’ golden paved streets in the heavenly lands An’ rivers of peace gently flowin’ An’ beautiful gardens with trees of life growin’ On both of the banks and the children can play Where the old will get young and the sad will get gay. I haint no hand at a playin’ Nor singin’ in the quire But I’m sorter good on shoutin’ When I ketch the heavenly fire So I’ll jist set back and listen While the singin’s goin’ on An’ shout glory hallalooyer That the life jouney’s done With the preachen an’ the prayin’ An’ then I mout git happy then An’ slap my han’s tergether -- an’ shout a big -- AMEN John Robert HUME Wedderburn Castle Berwichsire on the Tweed Scotland
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MY BABY GIRL I now a little lady and her eyes are golden brown She’s the fairest little lady in all the country ‘round She’s witty and she’s pretty, and she’s all the world to me, That charming little maidenin her home across the sea. Some day I’ll go and see her when this troubled was is won And I’ll tell her how I loved her when the battles are all done Oh I’ll take this little lady for a jolly, jolly ride With a train of knights and their ladies a trooping at her side. We’ll gallop down the milky way to sunset golden bars, We’ll stop for lunch with Nevus and we’ll dine with Colonel Mars, We’ll take a big excursion to the man up in the moon, We’ll make our observation from a Pullman car balloon. Fer there haint no sich a baby an’ there’s never like to be As the charming little lady that I left beyond the sea. She’s witty and she’s pritty, she’s my jolly baby girl. And her eyes are like the sunshine, and her teeth are like the pearls. I’ll sail away some morning across the stormy main And we’ll anchor in that old harbor in our good old land again. I’ll take my baby daughter and I’ll press her to my heart Till this fevered life is over we will never, never part. Oh I’ll press her and I’ll kiss her on her dainty little nose Ph I’ll get a thousand kisses where the beautiful blossom grows I’ve fit in Bo koo battle till I’ve had my bloody fill An’ now I’m gwine to leave you, and I’ll meaner o’er the hill. John Robert HUME Palermo, Sicily, Italy Let gentle showers her fields forsake, Let sunshine every home forsake, Let all the Christian hosts above Whose hearts n’er throb save strains of love From pole to pole and sun to sun To roast in hell damned every Hun. A toast at Syracuse, New York August 10, 1917 My birthday 1862
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The Soldier’s Grave The home of my kindred, the land of my birth The fairest and dearest, the brightest on earth My heart fondly turns as onward I roam, To scenes of my childhood, my own happy home. In the carnage of battle or moan of the sea In the dreams of the night, I am thinking of thee. Oh blessed be the loved ones far over the foam Who are calling me back to my old childhood home. The beautiful valleys I wandered among The songs of my youth that in childhood I sung The orchard, the meadow, the old village mill, The spring that ran out from the foot of the hill. They lovingly, longingly, cling to my heart Tho far o’er the ocean we’re sundered apart Tho loved ones have passed forever away And mouldered to dust in their own kindred clay. The boom of the cannon, the cry of despair The moan of the dying that’s on mine ear ‘Tis home and our loved ones we’re fighting to save, we dread not the foeman, we scorn not the grave. John Robert HUME SICK SOLDIER IN FRANCE I sit at my grated window And gaze on the hurrying street And think of the starving children That haven’t enough to eat. Wan faces I see in the shadows That come with the fading light, And there’s one that perished in hunger And he died in the street last night.
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IN THE TRENCHES The songs they sang in the trenches Are the ones I want to hear The dear sold songs the soldiers sang ‘Twas music to mine ear. The songs they sang in the trenches The songs of the brave and true The songs of love and homeland I’d hear the boys from you. THE BATTLE RIM ‘Twas sunset on the battle rim The bending sun was low In their vigil dark and grim On their putrid bead below The cannon’s firey breath was hushed The weary warring sleep In dreams they see the dear old home Across the angry deep. Nothing to do but to hunger and die Turned out on the desert, God only knows why I’ve tried to be true to the colors I love I’ve prayed for the strength from heaven above I fought on the plains of the Phillipine Isles I’ve battled where Carabian waters smile I followed each mandate, each order obeyed. SWAT ‘IM ONCE Here’s to Briton, here’s to Frank Here’s to husky western Yank Here’s to every mother’s son Who loves to swat a brutal Hun. OLD FRANCE Land so olden, grand, and golden, Home of sweet romance, Rich in glory, song, and story, Beauteous Land of France.
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THEM HUNS Well them Huns may not be beaten, But the bastards keep retreatin’ All night long ye see ‘em crawlin’ On their lousey bellies sprawlin’ Guess they hear them Southern legions Frum them fur off western regions Scrubbin’ up their rusty sabers Poppin’ off among their sabers Molden bullits cuttin’ patches Keepin’ all the kids a scratchin’ Gittin’ ready fer the skinin’ Which I figger’s jist beginnin’. When the cock crows in the mornin’ Hun jist better take a warnin’ Cause them Huns of all creation Couldn’t whip that husky nation. Ole Unkil Sam is gittin’ in it -- Sorter hated to begin it. But his dander keeps a risin’ And his eye is lookin’ pizen. Husky lads with home made rifels Coon skin caps and all sitch trifles One their shoulders shot pouch fashion Gwine to give them Huns a thrashin’. Beats the world how Sam is buyin’ Wallet’s out and cash is flyin’ Tons and tons of ammernition. Mad as hell and all creation. Lots of cash fer hungry Frenchies Men to fill the empty trenches. Cause the devils risin’ in ‘em An’ them Dutch in hell can’t skin ‘em. An’ his dander now is risin’ And his eye is green as pizen. – Run, ye lousey sons of Bitches. Ole Arkansaw is in the ditches. John Robert HUME Rontaine Notre Dame Cambria Sector, Nov. 11, [1917] Under training in the Canadian Black-Watch where I was covered up in the trench at 2 o’clock a.m. in sick duty in the front line. Had an explosion and killed 4 out of 5.
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FOR FREEDOM and FRANCE They’ve laid their young lives on the altar To die for Freedom and France Not a soul among them would falter For the beautiful land of Romance. Answer We didn’t come here to die old man, Not even for freedom and France We aint here to grace no funeral pyre -- For the beautiful land of Romance. We’re too busy with life, old man, For here on the battle line Life and its woes beats hell a mile With me and those chums of mine. There’s lots of joy in life old man There’s lots of folly and fun. When we don’t have any thing else to do We butcher a lousey hun. There’s a feller that’s here old man He’s here in the Boche’s ditch The Rebels are here in the trench old man To boost the son of a Bitch. By Captain John Robert HUME In the Battle of Chateau Thierry
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DOWN IN SOISSON I wouldn’t feel safe over there An’ I don’t like the climate no how So I guess I’ll jist stay right here With the wimmin and cripples I ‘low. But then if my children should ask me What part that I took in the right Don’t tell ‘em I cornered provisions And boosted the price out of sight. Jist tell ‘em I couldn’t git over No matter how hard that I tried Jist that I volunteered often, Perhaps they won’t know that I lied. Just say that their dad was a hero And as handy as hell with a gun Jist tell ‘em I died fer my country Tho I did all I could for the Huns. AN OLD TOAST We didn’t come here old man Not even fer freedom an’ France So please don’t build no funeral pyre To humor no fool romance. The feller that’s here to die, ole man, He’s there in the Boche’s ditch, But we’re just waiten’ around a spell To butcher the son of a bitch. Soisson, France, July 18 TOAST IN AFRICA I fit the blasted heathens in the furrin Moro Land I rasseled with the Burghers on Africa’s burnin’ sand I tusseled with the Bozers on Chiney’s ancient shores But I’m doin’ stunts at Verdun which I never seen before. I’v fit the cused Dutchmin in the Filerpiner land, I barbycude them greasers in the land of sweet romance I et a dousaning pagins in the ole Chicamaca shore. But I’m doin’ stunts at Verdun wich I never dun before. In Verdun, Christmas [1917]
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IN THE GLOAMING I sit alone in the twilight dim At the close of the summers day And gaze on the twilights purple rim And the fleecy clouds at play. I must and dream of the days that are dead When my life was young and fair When the locks were dark in my boyish head And my heart was free from care. I dream of the days when my beautiful bride First clung my boyish arm Her queenly face was my joy and pride And the light of the dear old farm. The wild flowers bloom and the children play Where our old home use to be And the sunlight falls across the way Where she used to walk with me. ‘Twas years ago that she paled and died And the light went out of my life And our baby sleeps by his mother’s side My babe and my spotless wife. With her beautiful head on my aching breast She passed from the earth away To her home in the land of the pure and blest, The heavenly mansions of day. In a little green grave across the road They’re sleeping side by side I totter along beneath the load ‘Till I sleep at least at their side. So I sit and dream till the sunset’s gold Has faded away into the night I catch a glimpse of the starlit way That leads to the land of the light. They’re calling me home to the land above Where the dear ones watch and wait I’ll clasp again my long lost love By the side of the beautiful gate. So I’ll doze and dream in the twilight dim ‘Till the light fades out of my life, And I’ll pass o’er sunsets golden rim To my babe and my girlish wife. John Robert HUME Haute, Marne January 1, 1918
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THE LITTLE TIN SOLDIERS Over the desert and far away Two little tin soldiers marched off one day Into the land of cactus and sand Where the wunky birds sing and the Doodle Bugs play These little tin soldiers marched off one day Over the desert away and away. These little tin soldiers in firm phalanx Marched them away toward Hico’s Tank Thru the purple sage and the Chapparel These heroes fought like friends of hell They charged on the shacks by the railroad track They captured the chink at Hico’s tank. Over the desert and far away These little tin soldiers marched off one day Thru the mountain side with their captive prey Into the land where the Bogy man stay These terrible men with their Chinaman grey Marched over the desert and far away. There was a dark ole hole in the mountain’s side A gloomy cave where the Hoo Hoos died These little tin soldiers they hid them away Far from the eyes of the meddlesome day In the dark ole hole in the mountain’s side Where the Jack Rabbit wooed his were wolf bride. In the dark ole hole in the mountain’s side These little tin soldiers crept in to hide. A teddy bear danced on the cold stone floor A Tom Cat sang in a tree by the door In the cave inside where the Hoo Hoo died These little tin soldiers sat down and cride. They bawled and they cride in the earth below Oh I kant get out and I’ve no where to go Oh Boo Boo Hoooo, Oh what shall I do Oh I want to go home to Kalamazoooooooooooo, Oh Boo Boo Hoo, Oh what shall I do, I want to go home to Kalamazoooooooooooo. The Screech Owl lafft till his sides were sore The weather cock crowed for the hour of four The little tin soldiers straight way began Oh-I-wana-uh-go-ome-to Mish-shig-a-gan-annnnn Oh-Boo-Boo-Hoo--Oh mister m-maan-aan-an-an May-I pup-pu-please-go-ome-to Mish-shig-gan? Ole Kaiser Bill in a Sub ma-roon Came sailin along by the light of the Moon He stuck up his eye to the periscope He called for a light and ‘e called for a rope He rolled off the rock from the hole in the ground But the little tin soldier could no where be found. John Robert HUME El Paso, Texas
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JIST TROT ALONG Ef your country gits in trouble Be she right or be she wrong Never stop to ax no furder Git your gun an’ trot along. Hait best to be the fust one Raisin’ hell about yer rights But don’t be fur behind the next one When she’s fixin’ fer a fight. Never argify the matter Tell the danger time is past Them as fights the first invader Will probably fite the last. Fightin’ blood is that in ye Haint no slacker in yer clan Ever sence ole Newport landed They’ve been fighters, man to man. Fit the Injuns in Verginny Back in Pocahontas day Long with Boone in ole Kintucky An’ Sievers down in Tennessee. My STURDY BOYS I’d like to see my sturdy boys With all their life and all their noise I’d like to join their mirthful strife I’d like to see my gentle wife. I’d like to see my baby sweet My tiny girl I long to greet Her baby kiss upon my brow I want to clasp my baby now. I’d like to kneel where mother sleeps The wild flowers round her green grave creep some day beside that sacred mound I’d lay my tired body down. Montpelier on the Ocean
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FELL IN PICARDY There’s one of ‘em fell in Picardy An’ one of ‘em lost on the sea There’s nobody left of the children To cheer the old mother and me. Our Willie went off with the soldiers So stately an noble an’ grand ‘Is blanket nroll over his shoulder ‘Is rifle an’ bayonet in hand. Then Jimmy went off to the speakin’s He ‘listed the very next day We knew all along ‘e’d be comin’ As soon as our Will went away. Our Jim ‘ad a wife an’ a baby An’ a neat little cot all ‘is own An’ a smithy down you in the village It’s empty since Jimmy is gone. Mary came ‘ome ‘ith the baby A poor little delicate thing We laid it away in the autumn But Mary she lasted till spring. They’re sleepin’ down yan in the medder ‘Long side o’ our Charley ‘at died Jist Mary an’ them two little babies A sleepin’ down there side by side. Our little old home in Missouri It’s lonesome fer mother an’ me Sence Willie was killed in Picardie An’ Jimmy was lost in the sea. Sometimes when we sit in the twilight An’ talk o’ our children ‘ats dead They seem to come back thru the gloamin’ An’ kneel at the old trundle bed. Two little white forms on the pillers Each locked in ‘is brother’s embrace Our mischievous freckled faced Jimmy An’ Will with the curles ‘round ‘is face. Some day we’ll go home to the angels By the side of the bright crystal sea An’ meet with our boy from Picardie An’ one that was lost on the sea. John Robert Hume Montdidier, France
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MY MOTHER STORY ‘Tis better to live in freedom’s Hall With a cold, damp floor and a mouldering wall Than to bow thy head or the bend thy knee In the proudest palace of Slavery. ‘Tis better to die and moulder away On earth’s warm breast to primitive clay Unsung and unwept in a pauper’s grave Than reigned as a serf in the land of a slave. ‘Tis better to die on a pauper’s bed And rest at last among the unsung dead Or moulder for aye in a nameless grave Than live but as a German slave. I’d rather my babes should beg in the street From door to door for the bread they eat Or strive and die of hunger and cold Than reign as a prince in the German fold. When the end shall come and the day is gone Free from the blight of the Hell born Hun I’d sleep at last in a soldier’s grave Than to live in the court as a German slave. Columbia the Glorious, my country, my home, Thou far from thine altars, a wanderer I roam They meadows and moorelands, they hill sides and plains, In the dreams of the night time I see them again. Columbia the Glorious, the fair land of the West, O’er tyrants victorious, the brightest and best, The home of my kindred, blest land of my breast, The fairest and dearest, the brightest and best. Columbia the Glorious, I love they dear name, Though birthland of freedome, thou deathland of shame Oh best by they fireside, fair land of the free Mine own blessed home land, I’m coming to thee. John Robert HUME
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FIRST DAY AT SEA Over the bar and out at the sea Where the winds blow wild and life is free Over the foam, the beautiful foam, On the ocean’s breast I will seek my home. Out on the sea away and away Where the sea gulls skim in the salty spray, Out on the breast of the green old sea There is life and love and joy for me. Nor the slippery deck or the flapping sail Not the lightning’s flash or the crash of the gale With our God above we will fear no harm But sail our craft in the teeth of the storm. Down under the sea the waters green Is the filthy Hun in his submarine But what care we for his murderous craft Or his tin fish following far abaft? Back from the shore with its carping care Where the sea birds dance and the dolphins play We’ve pledged our faith to the land we love to the world around and the God above. Then here’s to the wives we left at home And here’s to the lads that sail o’er the foam, And here’s to the ones that sail with me, Out on the breast of the green old sea. John Robert HUME [SS Prinz Eitel Friedrich] Off Sandy Hook Light August 16, 1917
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I DON’T WANT NO GUN Wot th’el do they care for the lads over there A freezen to death in the trenches? I don’t want to fight an I’m feeling alright A settin’ round on the benches. Course I haint no slob, but I got a good job A settin’ political triggers When ‘leckshun times come I’ll sorter held some Round with the dagoes and niggers. I don’t want to shirk and I don’t want work I find there’s more comfort in sleepin’ I haint lost no Hun, an’ I don’t want no gun So its right here at ‘ome I’ll be keepin’. John Robert HUME St. Amand Montrod July 4, 1918 Of all the lands on earth to me Where ever I may roam No spot of earth is half so fair As my old Missouri home. I’ve wandered far across the sea I’ve traveled o’ver the main My heart turns back to me To my old home again. Around me lies the battle plain The constant boom that greets my ear The cannons sullen roar will greet me never more O heart of mine, why will ye weep For loved ones gone to death’s deep sleep? Why will ye the tempest roar For dear ones gone to heaven’s shore? John Robert HUME
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‘TWAS CHRISTMAS IN SEVENTEEN ‘Twas long ago when I was young And rambled in this wood I came upon this ancient fane Where once a cottage stood The roof was fallen to decay Each window pane was gone The wide old hearth stone Once so kind was now a lifeless. The antique floor where mother trod Was mouldered to decay And all that happy household throng Had long since passed away I peeped into a trysting place Which long ago I knew Each its must ancient place A little pack I drew. With trembling hands I broke the seal That bound its fragile fold And safely hidden in its graip This little band of gold I pressed it to my libs that thing I’d seen it years ago ‘Twas mother’s wedding ring. They two are sleeping with the dead, Who pledged their faith that day. John Robert HUME At Old “Buck Skull” on Current River in Arkansas.
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IF DEATH SHOULD COME If death should come and call me And I should go away Beyond the shining portal Of life’s last little day Should see the land immortal That lies beyond the gloom Earth life is just the portal Life’s cradle is the tomb. I feel I’m getting nearer To earth’s last little day I feel the bonds are breaking That bind me to the clay A few more day I’ll struggle Till life’s last earth born breath. Shall lift the golden portal But I shall see no death. Perhaps some night in slumber I’ll pass the outer bound, To join that glorious number Who sleep beneath the ground I’ll fold my hands in quiet And ere the sun be risen My body would be out of pain My soul be out of prison. John Robert HUME Currenton, Arkansas Randolph Co. A BRITISH TOAST Be ye Briton, Be ye Frank, Be ye husky Western Yank Be ye Wop er be ye None Here’s to him as swats a Hun. John Robert HUME Bourmont, Louraine A toast to General, Ding Dong Bell
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OLE PARSON BROWN I sometimes go to meetin’ To hear old parson Brown He preaches to the Babtis’ In the other end of town. He’s middlin’ spry on speakin’ About the golden shore And sez we’ll meet our loved ones And never part no more. I mind last Easter Mornin’ The sky was blue and bright And all the air around us A sea of golden light The sunshine fell in torrents And lay upon the floor An’ a solitary robin Was hoppin’ ‘round the dorr. The air was somethin’ glorious So balmy and so warm A sort er weather breeder That goes before a storm So I sot thar in meetin’ A dreamin’ of the day When the air would all be sunshine An’ the year would all be May. As I sot thar a dreamin’ About the holy dead A list’n and a wonderin’ ‘Bout every word he sed How the graves would all be opened An’ all dead would all arise An’ jine the holy angels In the land beyond the skies. Jist a sittin’ an’ a dreamin’ I couldn’t keepin frum cryin’ A wonderin’ of the Judgement Could do anything for--BRYAN. Jacksonville, Florida May 18, 1898 John Robert HUME
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CATAWBA RIVER Long ago when this beautiful southland of ours Baptised by the dew and bespangled with flowers Where the limpid streams flowing through the cool forest shade And the warrior chief courted his dark Indian maid. Far up where the clear mountain stream had its birth Its waters flow down and encircle the earth. Here the red chieftain followed the fierce grizzly bear And the mountain wolf hid in his dark forest lair. In this beautiful land of the happy and free No human foot trod save the fierce Cherokee. But the years have gone as a tale that is told And the silence of ages their life works enfold. No more the wild chieftain shall chase the wild deer Or home to his mountain side follow the bear. Nor shall the black wolf disturb the dark brake, No birchen bark canoe shall here glide o’er the lake. The red man has raised to his death bed of fame On the scroll of the ages is written his name. The pioneer huntsman came here with his bride And made him a home on the clear river’s side. He made him a cot of the pinetree and oak And the sturdy old forest treest were felled by his strokes. He built him a temple where God might be praised By the side of his fireside an altar was raised; The children that came ‘round his generous board One by one were baptised in the faith of his Lord. Giants indeed were those chiefs of our line, These sturdy ancestors of your house and mine, Each freeman a sovereign, each household a throne, Their Christ was their king, their land was their own. When the hand of the tyrant was armed with the sword, The freeman came forth in the strength of the Lord. They battled for home and they battled for right, Their shield and their buckler was God and His might. But the sun of their lives has gone down in the west. One by one they have passed to their haven of rest. They sleep with the blest in the cool forest shade By the side of the temples their strong hands have made And sweet be their rest in the mansions above A heritage priceless, a birthright of fame, They gave to their children a glorious name. Charlotte, North Carolina April 25, 1919
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DEATH OF GEN. WILLIAM LEE DAVIDSON My great grandfather Adown Catawba’s turbid tide, In arms the treachrous foemen ride, O’er Cowan’s Rocky Ford. The mists of night hung o’er the stream Save where the campfire’s dying gleam Forewarned the traitor horde. Enwrapt in slumber’s peaceful rest His trusty rifle on his breast To slay the tyrant foe Our patriot sires in silence lay, And waited for the coming day To lay the Cowards low. A startled shot rings on the night Ere yet the day dawns firendly light Breaks on the purpling sky. Quick, quick to arms each freeman rushed Each hill to make reply. Scarce had young Hunter’s well aimed lead Laid boasting British Colonel dead Amidst the swelling flood, Till from each rock and tree trunk nigh The Yankee shots made quick reply, The river stained with blood. Adown the stream went many a corse,-- Of British dead, old Cornwall’s horse, And Martin’s beaver hat. While Freedom’s patriots fired and fled, Till choked the stream with Tory dead, Hurrah! My lads for that. (continued)
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DEATH OF GEN. WILLIAM LEE DAVIDSON (continued) But hark! A muffled step I hear A shot breaks on the listening ear, ‘Tis traitor Hagar’s gun. The ball has pierced our chieftain’s heart. The crimson flood begins to start; The deed of death is done. Press forward men, he bravely cried, And falling from his charger died, That ringing call his last. The frost of death is on his brow, His ransomed soul is passing now; His deeds on earth are past. Let children’s children rise and tell How great grandfather fought and fell, To ransom you and me. Go write his name on vict’ry’s scroll. Go tell the tale from pole to pole, Columbia still is free. And when ten thousand, thousand years With all their joys and all their tears Shall pass o’er earth away, The sould of those who died for truth Shall shine in one resplendent youth In heaven’s eternal day, John Robert HUME Asheville, N.C. May 10, 1900
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ROUSE YE SONS OF FREEDOM ROUSE ye sons of freedom Noble true and tried Rally round the standards Where your fathers died. Forward men of battles Forward in your might For your homes and wee ones, Liberty and right. ROUSE ye sons of freedom For the land we love For our wives and dear ones, For our God above, ‘Round your glorious banner Red and White and Blue Sons of brave Columbia Noble, tried, and true. Hear the Bugle calling Ringing through the land Gather round your Banners ‘Neath her colors stand. From the wayside cottage Great ancestral hall Sons of brave Columbia Rally to her Call. Freemen they are calling Far there beyond the sea Hear their anxious pleading Pleading unto thee. Freemen, dare you answer Answer ere they die. Brother, we are coming, Brother here am I. John Robert HUME Fort Bliss, Texas Surgeon, 7th Infantry January 8, 1916
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DREAMING OF CHILDHOOD I dreamed last night I stood again Upon the oaken floor And watched the bees swing in and out Around our cottage door. I saw again the same old hills Where long ago I played I dozed away the noon tide hours Beneath the apple shade I wandered in the same old woods I saw the same old trees Where long ago in childhood days My mother roamed with me. I saw our school house by the road The wide old fashioned well I saw our white walled village church I heard its deep toned bell I saw our light backed family pew My parents both were there I heard them sing the sweet old songs I knelt with them in prayer I heard the parson pray and preach I heard the grand Ahmen I saw myself a little child On mother’s knees again. It seemed again the evening hour And all the work was done Around thw wide old kitchen hearth We gathered one by one With nuts and apples, games and books, In one unbroken household band Of happy girls and boys And when the evening prayers were said The good night kiss went round We tumbled in our trundle beds In childish slumber bound. (continued)
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DREAMING OF CHILDHOOD (continued) Oh blessed land of long ago Sweet memories round you cling, Your angel forms come trooping back On twilight golden wings Where ere I wander o’er the earth Or on the stormy sea In dreams the forms of long ago Come crowding back to me. The soft winds sing over all From out the silent deep I hear my mother’s gentle voice My dear one go to sleep. The beautiful dream has passed away And on the graveyard hill The forms I saw in twilight dreams Are silent cold and still. Our father sleeps among the dead My brother’s passed away And mouldering in that graveyard bed Lies mother’s sainted clay. And some have beyond the sea And on the battle plain Their silent forms are cold and clay still Among the deathless slain. John Robert HUME Soisson, France July 20, 1918
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AN OLD TIME GRAVE Tiny baby of long ago Do your wandering spirit know How the seasons come and go How the battles ebb and flow Tiny babies sleeping there Do you know or do you care Do you feel the pangs bear Did you feel the passing breath Did you fear the touch of death Did you know or did you care? An old time tomb stone at Vimy Ridge dated 1798 Two babies buried here Where Chauteau Thierry ancient walls In ruined splendor rise And o’er her great ancestoral halls A deathly stillness lies Uppiled in many a mouldering heap There lies our kindred slain Who went with us beyond the seas Will never come home again. They gave upon the battle plain ‘Twas gave upon the battle plain ‘Twas all they had to give The sacred spark of life divine You died that we might live Sweet be your sleep, oh blessed dead In history’s fond embrace The laurels crowns the martyred head. At Chauteau Thierry Battle June 16, 1918
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WHEN I GIT TO HEAVEN Some day as I walk on the heavenly street I’s gwine to look on the faces I meet I’s gwine to see if there is any I know Of all that I loved in the journey below, I’ll look for the boys of Hard Scrabble’s School An’ busted with blushing Joe Ballance’s rule McCammons and Allsman and all of the clan I’ll also look close fer the certain young man Ef he should be there, then I’ll have a desire To go to that place where they don’t lack of for fire, If he should be there I certainly doubt That St. Peter should ever turn any one out. When I git up there as I’ve already said I’ll fust look fer mother and then brother Ed An’ then the children I know they’ll be there Then I’ll look for the rest as I git time to spare There’s Marion and Fan and Grandaddy, too, An’ Unkle John’s folks an’ Carpenters too An’ all of our cousins from in Ellinoys An’ Unkle Zeke Jones and girls and boys An’ all of the friends at ever I had Old ones and young ones and good ones and bad If they haint all there then it seems likes as I see ‘At Heaven haint agoin’ to be no place fer me. When I git to Heaven as I just said before The fust thing I’ll do when I git to the door An’ see old Saint Peter a loafin’ around I’ll ask ‘im where all of my folks can be found The thing I want most on that heavenly shore Is jist to hear mother a singin’ once more Sing as she ust to when she was a livin’ The old songs the dear songs of Jesus an’ heaven I think they must have an ole kitchen hearth Just as they ust to have down here on the earth Where all of us children can gather agin, And rest from this wearisome old world of sin. When I git to heaven as tween me and you It’s cording to natur most likely I do Fore many more years, fir its easy to see I haint half as young as I once used to be If a lot of ole brethern, an’ ole sistern too Go singin’ an’ harpin’ as I hearn they do An’ them as can’t sing an’ them as can’t play It haint very long I’ll be wantin’ to stay If my folks haint all gittin’ along like the rest Then we’ll pack up our duds and go on furder west. On the battle’s rim near old Verdun 77th French Infantry January 14, 1918 JOHN ROBERT HUME
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WHAT RIGHT HAVE YOU? What right have you who have dwelt afar From Flanders field to sing of the war? Have you gone down in the battle’s lair Shoulder to shoulder with heroes there, Or dared to stand in the fearsome strife And strike a blow for your country’s life? Will your sweet babe on his mother’s breast Safe and warm in his own home nest When the years have gone and your head is grey Point with pride to you deeds today? Will he say to his son as the years roll on, “Your Grand sire stood where the cause was won”? When the end shall come and you sink to rest And pillow your head on the kindly breast-- Of mothers earth-- ‘Tis freedom’s sod And you stand at the throne of your country’s God Hated and shunned in the land of your birth Accursed of God and disowned on earth. When your children stand by your own grave Will they of the deeds of your grandsires brave --Will they tell of the deeds --With downcast eye will they turn and go From the one who shared not his country’s woe? GO COWARDLY KNAVE Go cowardly knave and hide you away Cover your face from the glory of day Erased from your fair faced history’s scroll From a dastard name and a craven soul. John Robert HUME Gievres, Loire at Cher October 31, 1918
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OLD MARTEL From the woodland, from the plain, Rise ye serried hosts again Rise ye princes, ye sages, Rise ye noble of all ages. Rises ye great and rise ye good, Faiths undying brotherhood, Come with might and come with power This is hopes decisive hour. Rise and stand for home and heaven For the land that God hath given Rise and stand for truth and right God will arm you with his might. Old Martel come back again Dastard tread thy natal plain Prince of Lombard’s Iron Crown Rise and strike the Attila down. Come from history’s blood writ story, Come with all thine olden glory Lift the Cross and draw the sword In the name of Chirst, our Lord. Maid of Orleans, rise again Traitors foul thy sweet Loraine God hath armed thee, rise in might, Rise and strike for home and right. Ste. Jeanne de Arc Oh sing me the songs that the soldiers sang On the battlefields horrible rim The beautiful songs of the far off home When the fires were smouldering dim.
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[map of Northern England and Scotland]
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THE GRAVE WHERE GENERAL DAVIDSON IS BURIED In Hopewell’s consecrated ground Lies freedom’s earth--lies victory’s mound, Their course on earth is done. The kindly earth has done sweetly spread Her fragrant tributes o’er their head Their heavenly life begun. They lived and loved, they fought and prayed And here within the church yard shade Their sacred relics sleep. While high above yon azure dome They rest in heaven’s eternal home That God alone can give. A hundred fifty years ago They walked as we do here below. They toiled that we might live. There lies beneath yon mossy stone His mortal clay--the spirit flown To realms of heavenly bliss. Old Alexander’s mortal parts Enshrined in Carolina’s hearts To every freeman’s breast. And there within yon unmarked grave There lies the one who freely gave His life that we might live. A votive sacrifice divine He laid upon the victor’s shrine ‘Twas all he had to give. In manhoods prime he sank to rest A traitor’s bullet in his breast By felon hands laid low. Unto their God this shrines they reared The only potentate they feared In earth or air of sky A sure foundation here they laid Its corner stones in heaven are laid. John Robert HUME Charlotte, North Carolina
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I’D LIKE TO SEE MY WESTERN HOME I’d like to see my western home Beyond the dark Atlantic’s foam Far from the battle’s deaf’ning roar I’d tread again my native shore. I’d like to see my sturdy boys With all their mirth and all their noise, I’d like to join their playful strife I’d like to see my gentle wife. I’d like to clasp my baby sweet My pretty girl I’d like to greet Her dainty kiss upon my brow I’d like to see my baby now. I’d like to walk the dear old ways I used to tread in boyhood days I’d like to sit beneath the tree Where loved ones used to sit with me. I’d like to join the same throng And sing with them the dear old song They’re singing on a brighter shore I’d like to sing with them once more. I’d like to see our cottage door The slanting sunlight on the floor I’d like to sit beside the gate Where long ago I use to wait. I’d like to hear my mother’s voice It used to make my heart rejoice I’d rather far from wealth or fame To hear my mother call my name. I’d like to kneel where mother sleeps The wild flowers o’er her green grave creeps Some day beside that sacred mound I’d lay my tired body down. John Robert HUME In Genoa, Italy November 9, 1918
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THE SONGS OF BATTLE LINE A bloomin’ dud it crop’d ‘im It flecked off ‘is ‘ed An’ ‘e lay there upon the gorse A bit of human waste Ner even dared to dream Fer oncet ‘at ‘e was dead Because ye know the bloomin’ dud An twitted off ‘is ‘ed. Calmly I saw him die Under the blazing sky There was no woman nigh To hear his last breath There was no sister there There was no whisper’d prayer Only a youth as fair Conquered by death.
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[back cover]
Details
| Title | Poems by John R. Hume - 1898-1919 |
| Creator | Hume, John R. |
| Source | Hume, John R. Poems. 1898-1919. John R. Hume Collection (1786-1919; 1935; 1967). A0730. Missouri History Museum, St. Louis, Missouri. |
| Description | Collection of poems by John R. Hume, many of which were written during his service in the Army. Hume was a surgeon in the 7th U.S. Infantry Regiment, and served with General John J. Pershing's expeditionary force in Texas and Mexico in 1916-1917. During World War I, he was a captain with a field hospital detachment which landed in France in September 1917. The unit served variously at Bourmont, Goncourt, and in the Verdun sector, attached to the French 77th Infantry Regiment, the 23rd U.S. Infantry Regiment and the 1st and 2nd U.S. Infantry Divisions. |
| Subject LCSH | World War, 1914-1918--Poetry |
| Subject Local | WWI; World War I; Poems |
| Site Accession Number | A0730 |
| Contributing Institution | Missouri History Museum |
| Copy Request | Transmission or reproduction of items on these pages beyond those allowed by fair use requires the written permission of the Missouri History Museum: 314-746-4510 |
| Rights | The text and images contained in this collection are intended for research and educational use only. Duplication of any of these images for commercial use without express written consent is expressly prohibited. Contact the Missouri History Museum's Permissions Office at 314-746-4511 to obtain written consent. |
| Date Original | 1898-1919 |
| Language | English |