A Wayside in France Adolphe E. Smylie
in The New York Herald
Permission to reproduce in this book
“COME shake hands, my little peach blossom.
That’s right, dear, climb up on my knee.
This big Yankee soldier is lonesome—
Ah, now we’ll be friends, ma chérie.
We won’t understand one another,
Your round eyes are telling me so,
But the cling of your chubby fingers
Is a language that all daddies know.
When I caught a sight of your pigtails
And those eyes of violet blue,
It made me heart-hungry, ma petite,
For I’ve a wee girl just like you.
She lives ’way across the wide ocean,
Out where the bald eagles nest,
And she knows all the chipmunks and gophers
At my shack out in the West.”
“Tu dis l’ouest! Est-ce ton pays?
Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi—
Maman est toujours à pleurer—
Me retrouver mon soldat Papa?
Il etait avec sa batterie
Près des Anglais la, en campagne,
Mais Papa est allé dans l’ouest,
Des Anglais disaient à Maman.
Alors, Maman sera heureuse
Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus;
Je veux te donner un baiser,—
Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous!”
There she goes! She told me her secret,
Kissed me and then flew away,—
Say, Poilu! You savez some English,
Now what did that little tot say?
“She say Engleeshman tol’ her Mama
Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West!
You said West, bien! Zen you live zaire,
So she make you her leetle request,
Zat you find heem in your countree
So her Mama no more she weel cry;
Zen she thank you an’ kees you, si joyeuse,—
Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!”