WWI American
Immigrant Poetry
DEAR Germany shall have her sons!
What though my blood diluted runs
Since first my grandsires sailed away
From Europe’s internecine fray?
How can a man, half worth the name,
Sit cold, while Europe is aflame?—
While Germans fight the white man’s fight
’Gainst Tartars knowing but one right:
The right to spew their noisome hordes
From Danube’s gates to Norway’s fjords!
This fight’s the East against the West—
Ask History who is worthiest.
Old England, forced to play a part,
Goes grimly, with a sullen heart,
Mercurial France, for sentiment,
Forgetting all of race intent,
Joins hands with Tartars, to regain
Small, worthless Alsace and Lorraine.
The Fatherland has held the front—
Through centuries has borne the brunt
Of peaceful war for life and art,
For progress, and the better part.—
The nations marveled at the pace,
And knew they ran a losing race.
All armed against their jealous foes,
The Germans in a night arose.
They saw the yellow man emerge
And, grinning, stand upon their verge!
The Teuton struck—smote first, and hard,
Struck like a man, his home to guard.
Dear Germany shall have her sons!
What though their blood diluted runs
Since first their grandsires sailed away
From Europe’s internecine fray?
Shall men who flow that virile stream
Sit idly by, and watch, and dream,
While Tartar foes invade that land,
And stretch to clasp the Gallic hand?
Arise, ye Goths! Embattled stand!
Arise, for God and Fatherland!