He was just a small church parson when the	war broke out, and heLooked and dressed and acted like all parsons	that we see.He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked	his vest behind.But he had a man's religion and he had a stong	man's mind.And he heard the call to duty, and he quit his	church and went.And he bravely tramped right with 'em every-	where the boys were sent.He put aside his broadcloth and he put the	khaki on;Said he'd come to be a soldier and was going	to live like one.Then he'd refereed the prize fights that the boys	pulled off at night,And if no one else was handy he'd put on the	gloves and fight.He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the sol-	diers' needs,And he said: "I'm done with preaching; this	is now the time for deeds."He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell	the size of shellFrom the shriek it make above him, and he knew	just where it fell.In the front line trench he laboured, and he knew	the feel of mud,And he didn't run from danger and he wasn't	scared of blood.He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered	them with his jokes,And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes.Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt be-	side a ladWho was "going west" right speedy, and they	both seemed mighty glad,'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he 	smiled and whispered low,"Now you needn't fear the journey; over there	with you I'll go."And they both passed out together, arm in arm	I think they went.He had kept his vow to follow everywhere the	boys were sent.
Edgar A. Guest
chaplain, death, war