The Project Gutenberg eBook, Rhymes of the Rookies, by W. E. Christian
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Rhymes of the Rookies
Author: W. E. Christian
Release Date: October 27, 2004 [eBook #13886]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF THE ROOKIES***
E-text prepared by Al Haines
RHYMES OF THE ROOKIES
Sunny Side of Soldier Service
by
W. E. CHRISTIAN
1917
To the Colors
Here's to the Red of the Firing Line;
Here's to a World White-Free;
Here's to the Blue of the Yankee Sign;
Here's to Liberty!
—W. E. C
To
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Colonel of the Rough Riders
Who, more than any other one man
gives out
The Spirit and the Meaning
of the
AMERICAN SOLDIER
CONTENTS
MY BUNKIE OUR OFFICERS PAY DAY THE ARMY GROUCH WEANING TIME "HANDS ACROSS THE SEA" THE HIKE A-B-C OF ARMY LIFE A SOLDIER'S PRIMER THE TALE AND WAIL OF A ROOKIE A MARINE'S HYMN HERE'S TO THE SIXTEENTH HIKING IN THE PHILIPPINES THE MOUNTAIN BATTERY SONG THE CAVALRY SONG THE RED GUIDON THE CONSCRIPT THE SLACKER PREPAREDNESS "BEANS" ADVICE THE SCENT OF THE COCOA MEN OF THE HOSPITAL CORPS GARRISON LIFE THE PHILIPPINITIS THE EAST IS A-CALLING TELL YOUR TROUBLES TO THE CORPORAL OF THE GUARD GENERAL ORDERS OF THE KITCHEN POLICE IS HE A SOREHEAD? FUNSTON YEAR 2016 IN CHIHUAHUA WITH PERSHING IN MEXICO OLD BALDY "KAISER BILL" THE RAW RECRUIT SERVING IN TEXAS O'REILLY'S GONE TO HELL ON THE "BORDER" ROUTINE THE UNIFORM IN THE COLD GRAY DAWN OF THE MORNING AFTER THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POSTER ARMY FEVER ONE TO THE ARMY BEAN LITTLE THINGS SING-A-SONG-A-SIXPENCE QUEEN OF MAY A YOUNG ROOKIE'S LAMENT DANNY DEEVER BALLAD PUZZY LAPPINS A CYNIC'S VIEW OF ARMY LIFE THE SONG OF THE SHOVEL AND THE PICK
ARMY SLANG ENGLISH ARMY SLANG WORDS TO THE ARMY TRUMPET CALLS FIRST AID IN CASE OF ACCIDENTS FRENCH MONEY ENGLISH MONEY
MY BUNKIE
He's mostly gnarls and freckles and tan,
He'd surely come under society's ban,
He's a swearin', fightin' cavalryman,
But—he's my bunkie.
He's weathered the winds of the Western waste.
(You, gentle Christian, would call him debased)
And he's loved at his ease and married in haste,
Has my bunkie.
In a Philippine paddy he's slept in the rain,
When he's drunk rotten booze that drives you insane,
And he's often court-martialed—yes, over again,
Is my bunkie.
He's been on the booze the whole blooming night,
To mount guard next morning most awfully tight,
Though he's "dressed" like a soldier when given "Guide Right,"
He's my bunkie.
He doesn't know Browning or Ibsen or Keats,
But he knows mighty well when the other man cheats
And he licks him and makes him the laugh of the streets,
Does my bunkie.
He stands by and cheers when I'm having fun,
And when it is over says, "Pretty well done,"
But he takes a large hand if they rush two to one,
For—he's my bunkie.
When Taps has blown and all the troop is asleep,
We nudge each other and gingerly creep,
To where the shadows hang heavy and deep,
I and my bunkie.
And then when the fire-flies flittering roam,
We sit close together out there in the gloam,
And talk about things appertaining to home,
I and my bunkie.
If the slow tropic fever is a-shaking my spine,
And they blow "boots and saddles" to chase the brown swine,
He'll give me a leg-up and ride me in line,
Will my bunkie.
And if I get hit—his arm goes around,
And raises me tenderly off of the ground,
And the words on his lips are a comforting sound,
The words of my bunkie.
OUR OFFICERS
I'm goin' to be discharged, sir;
My time is near its close,
I want to tell you, cap'en,
You're the best the country grows.
They ain't no man in all the world
Can beat the army man,
That wears the shiny leggins and
That does the best he can.
I've seen them, sir, in battle
With the bullets flyin' round,
I've seen them lying wounded
With the blood-stains on the ground.
I've watched them when the fever
Was a-ragin' in the camp,
I've seen them nurse the cholera—
A-wrestling with the cramp.
I've seen them pin to that ol' flag
Another glory more,
That made the stripes look brighter
Than they ever did before.
They weren't winning V.C.'s, either,
But because the country said
For them to go, they went.
They done it or they're dead.
We've lots of men of this kind an'
Of course, we've some that ain't,
We'll cover up their faces
In the picture that we paint.
I'll follow men like you, sir;
You can't go too fast an' far,
You're officers and gentlemen
Like Congress says you are.
I wish I could re-up, sir,
Till you get your silver stars,
I'm sure you'll do them credit, sir,
As you have done the bars.
I know I shouldn't talk so much,
But somehow I'm inclined,
On leavin' the old outfit
Just to speak the company's mind.
PAY DAY
Oh, it's early in the morning,
The mules begin to squeal,
You hear the cooks a'bangin' pans
To get the mornin' meal;
The Bugler, sort o' toodlin,
Outside the Colonel's tent,
And you kind o' feel downhearted,
'Cause your last two bits is spent.
With a leggin-string you're fussin'
When the band begins to play,
And you listen, and stop cussin',—
What is that the bugles say?
Oh, it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day,
And the drums begin to roll,
And they sure do carry music
To the busted Johnnie's soul.
Some think about the girls they'll get,
And some, about the beer;
Some say they'll send their money home,
And all begin to cheer.
The games will soon be goin'
Snap your fingers at the dice;
With
'Til the Barkeep's out of ice.
For it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day;
Can't you hear the bugles call?
The privates and the Non-Coms,
The officers and all
Have been waitin', waitin', waiting
'Til they're broke or badly bent
For the coins stacked up on blankets
And table in a tent.
Fifteen dollars in the mornin'
By the evenin' in the hole;
And "Private Jones is absent, Sir."
When the Sergeant calls the roll.
The officers are lookin' up
The "Articles of War";
There's sixteen in the guard-house,
And the Provost has some more.
THE ARMY GROUCH
When the Grouch gets up at reveille,
He puts his elbow on his knee;
His head upon his hand;
And tho' he's slept ten hours or more,
His back is weak, his feet are sore,
And he can hardly stand.
And, as he goes to get his chow,
He says, "By Gosh!—I don't see how
A soldier lives so long.
The spuds is rotten and the slum
Is always worse than on the bum.
The coffee is too strong.
That cow was killed ten years before
They organized this bloomin' war;
These flapjacks taste like wood."
And so he growls through all the day,
And fills his comrades with dismay;
They'd kill him if they could.
When "First Call" wakes up Billy Lott,
He sits upon his Army cot,
And whistles "Casey Jones,"
And as he jumps into his shoes,
He says, "By Jinks I've had a snooze
That's good for skin and bones."
And Billy always has a smile
That you can see for half a mile,
And when he stops to say, 'How Do!'
He chases dimples to your cheeks
That stay there for a couple of weeks,
And he makes you happy too.
WEANING TIME
(To A. W. D.)
Mothers, O, ye mothers of the land!
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!"
"HANDS ACROSS THE SEA"
We're off for France to make "Fritz" dance
To the tune of shot and shell.
We'll march right in to old Berlin,
And give the Kaiser hell.
The French are right—they'll hold the fight,
And British "drives" are fine;
But Pershing's boys will find but toys
In the "Hindenberger" Line.
We leave hearts dear—the coast we clear
For the ocean's wide expanse.
A submarine on the ocean seen
Will have but little chance.
The cause is just—yet more we trust—
For the Honor debt we owe
Can ne'er be paid. 'Twas the timely aid
Of the Frenchman long ago.
For Lafayette is with us yet,
Still held in memory dear.
Our hearts now burn to give return,
While his name we all revere.
Oh! we're off to France—we want a chance
At the ecstatic thrill
Of being there to have a share
In the funeral of "Kaiser Bill."
THE HIKE
The orders are, "Prepare to hike!"
So pack your war bag. Hit the pike.
Throw back your shoulders—keep the step,
For this is where we get the pep.
"Prepare to hike," the orders are.
And don't you dare to ask how far.
We'll get what's coming, don't you see?
So what's the odds to you and me?
Prepare to hike! Roll up your kit.
Strap on equipment. Hit the Grit
Your corns will ripen on the road,—
Just pare them down when taps are "blowed."
We're billed to hike—the bugles blow.
"'Tis column right" and off you go.
Civilians watch as we pass by—
We watch the girlies wink the eye.
Prepardness is the slogan now,
And rumor says there'll be a row—
A real one on the Western Front.
We're drilling for this special stunt.
Prepare to hike! Get in the game.
Your feet get sore, but don't go lame,
Just set your jaws, with stiffened lip,
And hold the lines with sand and "zip."
War may be "Hell." So let it be.
Yet, must be fought, if liberty
Is still to reign upon her throne,—
Else all is lost. The best is gone.
Prepare to hike! Once more I say.
Round out your muscles for the fray.
Life's not worth living any more,
Should Teuton force invade our shore.
A-B-C-OF ARMY LIFE
A is the ARMY,
With its shot, and its shell,
B is the BATTLE
That makes the War, Hell.
C is the CAVALRY,
Dashing and Bold,
D is the "DOUGHBOY,"
Whom the trenches must hold;
E, ENGINEER,
Who lays out the plot,
F the "FIRST AID,"
With stretcher and cot;
G is the "GUARD,"
Our "Border-Patrol"—
H is HEADQUARTERS,
The high-ranking role.
I is the INFANTRY,
That's hot on the Hike,
J is JAW-BONE,
Oh, "Pay-as-you-like";
K is the KITCHEN,
Where they turn out the "stew,"
L is LANCE-CORPORAL.
Who ranks just a few;
M is the MESS,
Where the rations are served,
N is "NON-COM,"
Whose "Stripes" are deserved;
O is the OFFICER,
"Spick and so span,"
P is the PRISONER,
Who's "under the ban,"
Q is the QUARTERS,
With "lights out at Taps,"
R is the ROOKIE,
Whom everyone raps,
S is the SERGEANT,
Who keeps 'em in line,
T is TATTOO,
Three-quarters past nine,
U is the UNIFORM,
Buttons so bright,
V is the VOLLEY,
That settles the Fight;
W the
With "four Army mules,"
X the eX-soldier,
Whose ardor now cools,
Y is the YOUNGSTER,
Just out of the "Point,"
Z—can't you tell
This line's out-of-joint?
A SOLDIERS PRIMER
A man, a hat, a blouse, a gun,
Call this a soldier just for fun.
A dog tent, blanket, candle, match,
His home is built with rare dispatch;
With hard tack, bacon, army beans,
Army life is not what it seems.
A damp cold night, aching head,
The next day fever-soldier dead.
The story is brief (we know it well),
And plain is moral—"War is Hell."
THE TALE AND WAIL OF A ROOKIE
When I was young I said to myself,
Choose a career and start after the pelf,
Early to bed and early to rise,
You're sure to get wealthy and awfully wise,
So I started out to look around,
But nice fat jobs weren't easily found.
However, while taking a walk down the street,
A bright colored poster my eyes did greet,
"Young Men Wanted." I said, "That's me,"
And stepped up closer so I could see.
"Join the Army and see the World,"
My fingers around my last dollar were curled.
So I went around where they hung out the flag.
But that 7-year hitch made my interest lag.
They explained it, however, and made it quite plain
That to join the Army would be my gain.
So here I am in the damn Philippines,
They feed me nothing but bacon and beans.
The land of the goo-goo is no place for me,
The reason porque is easy to see.
I never was strong for bugs and lizards,
Or the amoebic bug that tickles your gizzards.
I have a reverse on fleas and snakes,
And I hate the noise the Gekko makes.
I have three square feet of prickly heat,
And some dhobie itch that can't be beat,
I've had the dengue and also the fever,
Of all diseases I've been the receiver.
I'm bitten by all that's invented to bite us,
At the end of the year I'll have Philippinitis.
A long centipede just crawled in my bunk,
This tropical service is certainly punk,
Not a chance in the world to go over the hill,
And half my time is spent in the mill.
But why should I worry, I'll soon be free.
A "G. C. M." does the trick for me.
A MARINE'S HYMN
From the Halls of Montezuma,
To the shores of Tripoli,
We fight our country's battles
On the land as on the sea.
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean,
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.
From the Pest Hole of Cavite
To the ditch at Panama,
You will find them very needy
Of Marines—that's what we are;
We're watch dogs of a pile of coal
Or we dig a magazine,
Tho' he lends a hand at every job,
Who would not be a Marine?
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun,
We have fought in every clime or place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far off northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes,
You will find us always on the job—
The United States Marines.
Here's health to you and to our corps
Which we are proud to serve,
In many a strife we have fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the army and the navy
Ever look on heaven's scenes,
They will find the streets are guarded by
The United States Marines.
HERE'S TO THE SIXTEENTH!
(A toast by an officer at San Antonio banquet.)
Here's to the "Sixteenth Cavalry,"
A "Colt" that has just been foaled;
Bred with no "Past,"—but a Future,
Which Training and Time will unfold.
This "Colt," with his milk-teeth gives promise
Of growing to be some fine horse,
And if we give him "right raising,"
Be sure that he'll "come across."
Our "Colt" is as "sound" and as "quiet"
As any old horse you will see,
And, as for his "fit conformation,"—
That's just as fine as can be.
Here's hoping that he gets good "grooming,"
Good "grazing'"—good "stable"—good "stall;"
So when they sound "Boots and Saddles,"
The "Colt" can answer their call.
Here's hoping that he gets good "forage,"
Well "watered"—with "all-fours" well cleaned;
And not have to patrol the hot Border,—
At least,—until he is "weaned."
We'll swear by this "Colt," who is "hoof-marked"
With the "16th Cavalry" brand;
And we'll warrant when he "cuts his molars,"
He'll be as good as the best in the land.
We'll see that he gets fearless riders,
Who are "kindly" and know every "aid;"
So if ever a battle is brewing,
He'll go to the "Charge" unafraid.
He'll compare with all Cavalry horses,
No "I. C." marks for his neck;
Instead, upon his new brow-band
Resetted Blue Ribbons bedeck.
No matter the "sire," no matter the "dam,"
His "strain" is "pure-blood"—tho "unregistered" yet;
He'll "run in the money,"—when put to the test,
To "win in the stretch,"—on that you can bet.
So here's to the "Sixteenth Cavalry,"
The youngest of Cavalry "mounts;"
He hasn't a "Past" and a "Pedigree,"
But 's "all-horse,"—and that is what counts!
HIKING IN THE PHILIPPINES
(From a Marine's Diary)
(A ONE-DAY HIKE)
Rise and Shine, the bugle's calling!
Spring up lively from your beds!
Into line we'll soon be falling—
Shake a leg, you sleepy heads!
Better make a hasty toilet,
Like the other fellows do,
For I'll guarantee you'll spoil it,
Long before the day is thru!
Better see the shoes you're wearing
Have a heavy pair of soles;
Or you'll do some awful swearing
When the rocks come thru the holes!
Have your canteen filled and ready
Haversack swung on your belt,
Where it will swing good and steady
And its weight is scarcely felt!
At your breakfast don't you hurry—
Eat another dish of beans;
For you'll need it—don't you worry—
Hiking in the Philippines!
Up the dusty road we've started—
Rout Step—walking at our ease;
Soon the even lines are parted—
All are walking as they please.
Long before the sun has ambled
Far along the road we've rambled
In the early morning light.
Thru the narrow trail we're walking,
Sticking to the narrow path.
Just behind us some are talking,
'Way ahead we hear a laugh.
Now a slender bridge we're crossing,
Over to a "goo-goo" farm—
Where a Carabao is tossing
Up his head, in great alarm.
Here we stop to rest a trifle—
Sip a drop from our canteens.
Gee! It's tough to "pack" a rifle—
Hiking in the Philippines.
'Round the narrow path we're turning;
Tho it's early morning, yet.
Down the sun is fiercely burning—
Bringing out the drops of sweat!
Where the tropic trees are shading
Out the sunlight overhead
Leggings, shoes and all, we're wading
Thru a shallow river-bed.
You can hear the bamboo cracking
Underneath our heavy tread,
While the forest trails we're tackling—
Following, where we are lead.
You have got to be a Hiker
To keep up with these Marines,
Not a big four-flush or piker—
Hiking in the Philippines!
Where the big mangoes are growing,
We have halted—Stacking Arms,
Far away, a rooster's crowing
On one of the native farms.
Under branches of big palm trees,
We are resting easy now—
Welcoming the cooling sea breeze
While we're waiting for our Chow.
Plainest fare is a fiesta
When you've Hiked for half a day;
And a little noon siesta
Helps to pass the time away!
Like a ribbon all unraveled
Starts the line at half past two,
There are new trails to be traveled
Back to old Olongapo!
THE MOUNTAIN BATTERY SONG
1.
Fall in. Fall in. Attention, you red-legged mountaineers,
With your gun and pack and box of tack, "non-coms." and cannoneers,
Baptized in Mindanao, beside the Sulu Sea.
Here's How, and How, how, how, to a mountain battery.
Here's How, and How, how, how, to a mountain battery.
2.
I'd rather be a soldier with a mule and mountain gun
Than a Knight of old with spurs of gold, a Roman, Greek or Hun,
For when there is trouble brewing they always send for me
To start the row with a row, row, row, from a mountain battery.
To start the row with a row, row, row, from a mountain battery.
Here's to pack and aparejo, the cradle, gun trail,
And that darned old fool, the battery mule, that was never known to fail.
So raise your glasses high and drink this toast with me:
Here's How, and How, how, how, to a mountain battery.
Here's How, and How, how, how, to a mountain battery.
THE CAVALRY SONG
Come, listen unto this song, I'm as happy as can be,
I'm masher and dasher in the U. S. Cavalrie;
I stand up straight with legs apart; bowed slightly at the knee,
With folded arms across my chest, 'tis the pose of the Cavalrie.
Chorus:
So fill your glasses to the brim
And brace your courage with slow gin,
I will tell you all it is a sin
To serve in the Infantrie.
I'm a cavalryman so fierce and bold, a soldier thru and thru,
I ride a horse because of course 'tis the proper thing to do.
I wear my spurs both night and day that every one may see.
Whatever else I might have been, I'm not in the Infantrie.
We went to fight the China horde with sabre, horse and gun.
We'd meet them and we'd beat them just the way it should be done;
But we left our horses, corn and hay out on the ships in Taku Bay
And consequently had to stay while the dough boys hiked away.
I'm a man of experience, I've been to Fort Monroe,
I've garrisoned Fort Hamilton and the Presidio.
I went out to the Philippines and in the Walled Citie.
I fought the Filipino War in the Coast Artillerie.
Chorus:
So make way for the red stripe man,
The pride of our armee
And let him tell the glories of
The Coast Artillerie.
About another soldier man I'd like to say a word:
He's neither fish nor flesh nor fowl, but he is a bird,
He finds his way o'er foreign seas by sun and moon and star,
But he could not find his way across the Island of Samar.
Chorus:
So make way for the web-foot man
The good U. S. Marines.
They need four guides for every man,
Out in the Philippines.
THE RED GUIDON
Come, fill up your glasses. I'll give you a toast.
We'll drink to the red and the blue,
The first in the battle, the last from its post,
Old comrades so faithful and true.
Here's to friends who have passed o'er the last long divide,
Their spirit is still marching on,
As it did in the days when we marched side by side
As we followed the red guidon.
Chorus:
Then here's to the crossed cannons, they never will run,
The limber and rolling caisson,
The clank of the collar and rumble of gun
As we follow the red guidon.
We've soldiered together, brave hearts ever true,
We've marched, we have fought and we've bled
For the dear old flag with its red, white and blue
That floats in the breeze overhead.
We've joked and we've laughed around the camp fire's red glare
From Cuba to distant Luzon,
As we told the old stories that drive away care
'Neath the folds of the red guidon.
Come, toss off your tankards, we'll drink long and deep,
Brave hearts ever gallant and true,
To friends who now rest in their long peaceful sleep,
Who once wore the red and blue.
We'll prove true in the future as they in the past,
Old comrades of gun and caisson;
We'll fight like true soldiers from first to the last
As we follow the red guidon.
Chorus:
Then here's to the crossed cannons, they never will run,
Here's the limber and rolling caisson,
The clank of the collar and rumble of gun
And Hurrah for the Red Guidon!
THE CONSCRIPT
"Life is real; life is earnest"—but a Gamble after all,
"Ten million Conscripts" are answering the Call;
Ten million men of which I am One—
What were the "odds" when "the wheel was spun"?
What were the "odds" that Fate would select
Me for a Conscript—another reject?
Fate was the Gambler; I was a "chip,"
Death was the "stake" held in Life's grip;
I am a Conscript played in
When the Game's over—how will I stand?
Death, will it lose, or Life, will it win,
Who'll be the "winner" at the great "Cash-in"?
Ten million Conscripts to answer the Call,
And at the gusts, the leaves must fall:
With submarines launching torpedoes below,
Which troop ship to atoms are they to blow?
Ghosts of disease lurking in camp,
Spectral sickness in trenches so damp;
Ten million bullets ripping the air,
Which Conscript to be stricken, and when and where?
Ten million shrapnel shrieking o'er head,
Which Conscript to reckon among their dead?
Thousands of wounds, a-gaping and wide,
Who will recover, and who will have died?
Millions of mothers so anxious at home,
Who will wear crepe for loved ones, alone?
Millions of sweethearts who'll weep o'er the "lists,"
Which lovers the lips ne'er more to be kissed?
All is a Gamble—this War-Game of Chance—
The life of a Conscript over in France.
The "Roulette of Life" is spinning so fast,
The "red ball of Death" must drop in at last;
Which numbers will win, which numbers will lose,
The "odds" or the "evens," the "reds" or the "blues"?
Yet Hope is the "Banker" and He will repay
The chances that Conscripts must take in the fray;
And Fate's a Good sport, when "dealing the cards,"
He'll give "Fifty-fifty" to Conscript for odds.
THE SLACKER
Why don't he volunteer to serve
In Uncle Sammy's grand reserve?
He knows quite well his country's call;
Has no regard for this, at all.
He never thinks to do his part,
Because he has a Slacker's heart.
He walks along the street quite spry—
To feign indifference he must try,
When suddenly he takes affright,
It's just a picture (what a sight)
Of Uncle Sam with pointing finger.
Take it from me! He doesn't linger.
"Why don't you do it? do it quick!"
The Slacker's skull is very thick.
It never penetrates the gray,
What Uncle Sammy, has to say.
"I want you NOW!" Oh, what a Mutt.
The words fall on a brainless nut.
He lied on registration day—
Conscription's law he'll not obey.
He seeks the nuptial vows to take,
Or any other useless fake.
Whatever else, he'll never fight.
He has the Slacker's ear-marks right.
Oh, what a useless, shameless pest,
A blot on human kind at best.
His feelings are for SELF alone.
He would not give a dog the bone.
Behold his attitude—his pose.
The Slacker's ring is in his nose.
For country's call—for country's sake—
For Liberty he will not stake
His bit, nor will he ever be
But half a man. Not he—not he.
His formula contains no sand—
It's plain, he is the Slacker "Brand."
A sneak—a snake—a cur—a blasted
Dirty rotten scourge, dodgasted
Coward, thief, and all the rest—
Can't spell the name that suits the best.
There's just one place for such as he—
Not on the earth—eternity.
PREPAREDNESS
I never had no warlike mind,
I b'long to the plowin' peaceful kind
Thet stays at home and works along,
Sun to sun—I'm good and strong—-
But, neighbor, let me speak my mind:
When my country sez to back her,
Sez I back: "Here ain't no slacker,"
So walks up thar and signs the roll,
Come June the first, thirty-one year ole,
Now Uncle Sammy can call Bill Jones
Jest any ole time they say,
'Cause yisterday I gits insured,
And jined the church today.
I hates to leave the old home-folks,
They hates to see me go,
But I'd rather tote a rifle,
Than be shoulderin' a hoe.
When Uncle Sammy's needin' men—
And needin' 'em so much,
I 'lows how he can call on Bill,
To help 'im lick them Dutch.
For preacher sez: "God will protect
Me out thar," so, then, by Heck!
I am all O.K.
'Cause yisterday I gits insured,
And jined the church today.
The paper 'lows the fightin's bad,
As awful as can be—
Guns a-roarin'—blood a-flowin'—
And boats belo' thet sea.
But I'm ready—and I ain't a-feered
To die—if they do git me.
'Cause I ain't no skunking slacker,
If I am a "Georgia cracker,"
And if I don't come home no more,
The wolf won't come to my house door,
I am goin' when they say,
'Cause yisterday I gits insured,
And jined the church today.
"BEANS"
A dog there lived in many towns,
And he has wondrous wiles;
He travels in the Philippines,
And visits many isles.
"Ubiquitous" should be his name,
He's seen so many scenes,
But all his soldier friends prefer
To call him simply: "Beans"!
As a proper, first class passenger,
Is "Beans" name on ship's log;
You'd think his name was pedigreed—
The way he "puts on dog"!
Yet he is not a full blood pup,
But just a "yellow cur":
A "Nervy-Natty Gentleman"—
With all his fuzzy fur.
He chows awhile at Grande Isle;
And there he'll make a stay,
Until he tires of their mess;
Then promptly sails away.
He'll take a boat down Subic Bay,
To far Olongapo,
And when things get monotonous,
Then "Beans" is prompt-to-go!
He goes o'er to Corregidor,
And visits "C. A. C."
And if he don't like visiting—
He merely sails the sea!
He visits Fort McKinley,
And Cavite, too;
Now, where Beans has not been, forsooth,
I wish I only knew.
I know that all the sailors,
And all the soldier men
Do call him "Beans," and love him
For he is their dandy friend.
He wags his tail in greeting,
And barks at friends with joy;
But when his ship's a-sailing,
For Beans, it's Ship-A-hoy!
So here's to "Beans" old "Sea-dog,"
Who loves so well to roam;
I wish he'd try to settle down
And make our place his home.
ADVICE
Better start in soldiering and mind your P's and Q's,
Cut out going absent and ease up on the booze,
Don't kick because, you're on fatigue, but mind what you are about,
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don't
watch
out.
Don't go a-missing reveille; and be in bed by check,
Be sure to turn out promptly when you hear the sergeant shout,
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don't
watch
out.
Because you've got some service don't think you know it all,
You'll get your extras just the same if you should miss a call.
Take what they hand you weekly. Don't grumble, frown or pout.
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don't
watch
out.
THE SCENT OF THE COCOA
You have heard of the ancient incense;
Of the dew of Hermann you've read;
You have been told of the precious ointment
That poured down on Aaron's head;
But tell me—with all your knowledge,
Your theory, study and toil,
Have you heard of an equal or sequel
To the scent of the cocoanut oil?
At first it is always repulsive,
Makes you gag and back off in despair;
But when you've got the scent of the cocoa,
Just a scent, a mere whiff in the air,
Then you're gone, boy, yes, and forever,
Where'er in this world you may roam;
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
You forget all the precepts of home.
You forget those most noble teachings
Of fortitude, temperance and truth
When you once get the scent of the cocoa.
You're gone, boy, gone and forsooth
Though you try hard and strive to recover,
Pray to God and his angels as well,
If you've once got the scent of the cocoa
You're destined—your future is Hell.
But why should you be predestined
By the scent of an innocent oil?
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
No more can you break from its toil
Than a gambler can break from his ventures,
The drunkard turn away from his rye.
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
The longing is there till you die.
The great world at large doesn't know all,
The guilty ones seldom confess
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
Wafted up from the bright passing dress
That their thoughts are not those of angels
Sweet and pure as the dew of the rose,
That it's not just the scent of the cocoa
But the perquisite that with it goes.
There are times when the righteous are doubtful,
There are times when no man doubts.
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
There's a man and his conscience at outs;
Reckless of moral destruction,
Fearless of anguish and pain,
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
'Tis that scent that you long for again.
One may part from the Orient gladly,
From its garlic and dhobie and goats;
But if he's once got the scent of the cocoa
As he sits and in reverie dotes,—
His thoughts will revert to the eastward,
To the land of yellow and brown
And he sighs for the scent of the cocoa,
And the sight of a pina gown.
MEN OF THE HOSPITAL CORPS
They, too, have heard the drum-beat,
They follow the bugle's call,
Those who are swift with pity
On the field where brave men fall.
When the battle boom is silent
And the echoing thunder dies,
They haste to the plain, red sodden
With the blood of sacrifice.
The flag that floats above them
Is marked with a crimson sign,
Pledge of a great compassion
And the rifted heart divine.
And so they follow the bugle
And heed the drumbeat's call,
But their errand is one of pity:—
They succor the men who fall.
GARRISON LIFE
I want to go home, wailed the private,
The sergeant and corporal the same,
For I'm tired of the camp and the hikin',
The grub and the rest of the game.
I'm willing to do all the fightin',
For that is a game two can play;
But I want to go home, for me goil's all alone,
An' I want to go home to-day.
For I've marched 'til me throat was a-crackin',
'Til crazed for the want of a drink,
I've drilled 'til me back was a-breakin',
An' I haven't had time to think.
And I've had me share of policin',
And guard and I'm tired of me lay;
For me goil's all alone, an' I want to go home,
An' I want to go home to-day.
Do they heed us a-dying in garrison life?
They say it's the water and such,
We think that more apt it's the hikin',
For the life of a private ain't much;
But we know we can fight if we have to,
And they won't have to show us the way,
But me goil's all alone, an' I want to go home,
An' I want to go home to-day.
THE PHILIPPINITIS
My friend, have you heard of the town of Manila,
On the banks of the Pasig River,
Where blooms the wait-awhile flower fair,
And the "some time other" scents the air,
And the soft-go-easy grow?
It lies in the Valley of What's-the-use,
In the province of Let-her-slide.
That old tired feeling is native there,
It's the home of the listless I don't care.
Where the Put-it-off abide.
THE EAST IS A'CALLING
They say that the East is alluring;
The balmy green isles of the sea.
But with all their wild splendor assuring,
They have no fascination for me.
I camped with the boys at Siassi,
Way down in that sequestered isle,
Where the garb of a primitive lassie,
Was naught save a gee string and smile.
I hiked o'er the hog trails of Jolo,
In the blistering rays of the suns,
As the wild savage wielding his bolo,
Fell beneath the onslaught of our guns.
With a cartridge belt, rifle and knapsack,
I tramped through the wooded ravine,
On a ration of hard tack and bacon,
And a swig from a rusty canteen.
In Mindanao island so dreary,
From Malabang to Hawaiian hill,
Ever faithful though footsore and weary,
I shouldered my Krag for the drill.
On the outpost when night darkened o'er us
A lone vigil I kept through the rain,
And watched for the bloodthirsty Moros,
That prowled through the desolate cayan.
I have seen the half clad Filipino,
In his nipa thatched shack in Luzon,
Dispensing the tuba and bino,
Amidst our gay laughter and song.
At eve the brown-hued senoritas,
Strolled leisurely over the
In hobbles and gaudy camisas,
Their more loving than handsome queens,
They may say the East is a'calling,
The picturesque isles of the sea,
But with all their wild splendor enthralling,
They have no fascination for me.
TELL YOUR TROUBLES TO THE CORPORAL OF THE GUARD
If number one you are walking,
And to a comrade talking,
While around the country gawking,
Keeping neither watch nor ward,
And an officer unsaluted,
Swears at you with voice polluted,
Tell your troubles to the Corporal of the Guard.
If you are at the bridge of Spain,
And a foreign lady vain—
While a native with a rein
Jerks the skinny pony hard,
When to her aid you'll turn,
Tell your troubles to the Corporal of the Guard.
If on the Escolta posted,
And the sun your back has roasted,
And rebel chieftain boasted
As he handed you his card—
That he soon would clean you out
And put your Dewey's fleet to rout,
Tell your troubles to the Corporal of the Guard.
If to the canteen you are sent,
And your frame with thirst is rent,
And your spirits drooped and bent,
And the soldiers and the sailors bottle-crazed—
All are drinking fizzes cool,
Do not rave and act the fool,
Tell your troubles to the Corporal of the Guard.
If you should a bottle get,
No matter on which beat,
Or a morsel sweet to eat,
In the dreary times so hard;
You will find a friend to share it—
Call promptly for the Corporal of the Guard.
GENERAL ORDERS OF THE KITCHEN POLICE
My General Orders are:
1. To take charge of these spuds and all gravy in view.
2. Dish slum in a military manner; keeping on the alert and observing all meat balls that go within sight or hearing.
3. To report any private or non-com who asks for thirds.
4. To receive, transmit and obey all orders from and allow myself to be relieved by the Mess Sergeant, first and second cooks only.
5. To quit the coffee only when properly relieved.
6. To repeat all calls for "seconds" from the dining room.
7. To hold conversation with no one who asks for onions.
8. To allow no one to pass the cooks tobacco or booze.
9. To salute all slum not incased in an overcoat.
10. In any case not covered by instructions call the first cook.
11. In case of fire take out the ashes and get a bucket of coal.
12. Between reveille and retreat turn out the cook and the cook's police for all objects found in the slum, such as bedbugs, lizards, cockroaches, snakes and other insects not on the bill of fare.
BY ORDER OF GENERAL R. U. HUNGRY:
Peelem Spud,
Commanding Kitchen Police Brigade.
OFFICIAL:
O. U. Meatball,
Major, 3rd Cook Corps,
Brigade Adjutant.
IS HE A SOREHEAD?
You've heard of the famous six hundred,
who at Balaklava fell;
Who charged like death's avengers straight
into the mouth of hell.
But there's deeds unsung, unheard of;
brave deeds gone by unseen,
Just listen to the tale of a soldier, told in
ought thirteen.
Part of the Colonial Army for duty in the Philippine group. If I had the gink that sent me I sure would make him loop the loop. Our valor is tested daily. We fight the mosquitos and heat. The country is fine for a Gu-Gu, but I long for old Market Street.
The hiking is fine for a soldier, you fill up
on dust on the road,
And to eat on a dusty stomach makes you
feel like any toad.
You may talk of a seven-year enlistment,
God help me get this one in,
When you do one on the Archipelago,
you will never be free from sin.
They work you from morning till evening.
They've got you, there's no pulling out.
Can you blame us for drinking, old timer,
no chance, here's to you, old scout.
Our troubles may be all imaginary and
caused by too much sun,
But how much imagining is called for in
the war games they play for fun.
I try to do all they require me, but, God,
who can do all that?
The man is not made who can obey all
orders of a man with a gold cord on his hat.
Some are better than others, they don't
feel the polish and such,
But I've learned my lesson—they'll get
you in dutch.
Don't think for a minute I'm a sorehead
because I am in for bob,
My muscles shure got hard in the army;
I can d——! easy get a job.
And if some time, in the future, I would
hate someone to think me a friend,
I'll advise him to enlist in the army, good
night, I know that sure is his end.
FUNSTON
Never any style about him,
Not imposing on parade,
Couldn't make him look heroic,
With no end of golden braid.
Figure sort o' stout and dumpy,
Hair and whiskers kind of red,
But he's always moving forward,
When there's trouble on ahead.
Five foot five, of nerve and daring,
Eyes pale blue, and steely bright,
Not afraid of man or devil,
That is Funston in a fight.
Fighting since he learned to toddle,
Soldier since he got his growth,
Knows the Spaniard and the savage,
For he's fought and licked 'em both,
Not much figure in the ball room,
Not much hand at breaking hearts,
Rotten ringer for Apollo,
But right thing when something starts;
Just a bunch of brains and muscles,
But you always feel somehow
That he'll get what he goes after,
When he mixes in a row.
Weyler found out all about him,
Set a price upon his head;
Aguinaldo's crafty warriors
Nearly filled him full of lead.
Yellow men and yellow fever,
Tried to cut off his career;
But since he first hit the war trail,
He has never slipped a year.
And the heart of all the nation
Gives a patriotic throb,
At the news that Kansas Funston
Has again gone on the job.