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e cherish the hope some day of returning and finding our parents, our wives, and our little ones. Yes, that is my hope, my joyous hope. But to come to that day, so like a dream, we must be of good cheer. It is only by enduring patience, full of confidence, that we shall force back our oppressors. To chase away those cursed Prussians--_Crack_! We need the obus. My captain calling, '_Crack_! More, still more of those obus!' Giving them the bayonet in the bowels, we shall chase them clean beyond the Rhine. And our victory will be won to the waltz of the obus." It was a song out of the heart of an unconquerable boy. It climbed the hillock to the top. The response was the answer of men moved. His song told them why they fought on. There is a Belgium, not under an alien rule, which the shells have not shattered, and that dear kingdom is still uninvaded. The mother would rather lose her husband and her son than lose the France that made them. Their earthly presence is less precious than the spirit that passed into them out of France. That is why these weary men continue their fight. The issue will rest in something more than a matter of mathematics. It is the last stand of the human spirit. What is this idea of country, so passionately held, that the women walk to the city gates with son and husband and send them out to die? It is the aspect of nature shared in by folk of one blood, an arrangement of hill and pasture which grew dear from early years, sounds and echoes of sound that come from remembered places. It is the look of a land that is your land, the light that flickers in an English lane, the bells that used to ring in Bruges. +----------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcribers note: In the original and html version this poem is| |centered, in this text is is rendered flat to the margin. | +----------------------------------------------------------------+ LA VALSE DES OBUS I Chers amis, je vais Vous chanter des couplets, Sur la guerre, A l'Yser. Pour vous faire savoir, Que la vie, tous les soirs, Aux tranchees, N'est pas gaie. A peine arrive, 'l Faut aller travailler. Qu'il fasse noir' ou qu'il y ait clair de lune, Et sans fair' du bruit, Nous allons pres de l'ennemi, Remplir des sacs pour fair' des abris. Ir et IIe Refrain Chaqu' fois que nous sommes aux tranchees, Crack! Il tombe des obus. Nous sommes tous
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