With broods of sisters, brothers--hand in hand--
'Tis weaning time. Clip ye the thread
That apron-strings the lad! Give him his head!
Pluck from your teat the clinging lip
That should be tight with valor's grip!
"You were my child-in-arms," she said;
"Suckled I you, and gave you bed;
But now you are my man, my son.
For battle lost or battle won,
Go, find your captain; take your gun,
To stand with France against the Hun!
Reck not that tears might wet your crib;
Nor fear my fondling of the bib
You wore--when you are gone.
Your mother will not be alone;
Her love-mate will be Duty Done:
Her nights will kiss that midnight sun.
If tears? They will be tears of Joy,
For having milked a man, my boy.
Farewell and live, heart of my heart.
God steel my soul! I bid you start!
He goes!
God knows
I idol him. And may no backward glance
Unheart me now. To France! To France!
Fair France of La Fayette's romance.
My man-in-arms advance, advance!
Take down your grand-sire's crimsoned lance!
For man-wide Freedom and for France!"