Not somewhere in America is love of country
found,
But east and west and north and south once
more the bugles sound,
And once again, as one, men stand to break
their brother’s chains,
And make the world a better place, where only
justice reigns. 
The patriotism that is here, is echoed over there,
The hero at a certain post is on guard everywhere. 
O’er humble home and mansion rich the starry
banner flies,
And far and near throughout the land the men
of valor rise.

The flag that flutters o’er your home is fluttering
far away
O’er homes that you have never seen.  The same
impulses sway
The souls of men in distant states.  The red, the
white and blue
Means to one hundred million strong, just what
it means to you. 
The self-same courage resolute you feel and
understand
Is throbbing in the breasts of men throughout
this mighty land. 
Not somewhere in America, but everywhere to-day,
For justice and for liberty all free men work
and pray.

The Things That Make a Soldier Great

The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon’s mouth, nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall: 
’Tis these that make a soldier great.  He’s fighting for them all.

’Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave;
’Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see the little place called home. 
Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run—­
You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun.

    What is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees? 
    The little garden far away, the budding apple trees,
    The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play,
    Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray. 
    The golden thread of courage isn’t linked to castle dome
    But to the spot, where’er it be—­the humble spot called home.

And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there,
And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been. 
He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now—­he’s fighting for them all.

         The Flag

We never knew how much the Flag
Could mean, until he went away,
We used to boast of it and brag,
As something of a by-gone day;
But now the Flag can start our tears
In moments of our greatest joy,
Old Glory in the sky appears
The symbol of our little boy.