:©»::;;:««« :(^;lS®fM»iiI HvoR SifiSiliiiiiilii' i^a^'J S^. 0'"' J Cornell University Library PS3513.R548B18 Ballads of the regiment, 3 1924 005 406 123 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924005406123 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT BY MAJOR GERALD E. GRIFFIN, U. S. A. Fublished by GSORGS V. HARVBV PUBUSRINO COMPANY, INC. 109 Lafayette Street, New York City PRICE 91.00 Copyright 1918 By GEORGE U. HARVEY PUB. CO., Inc. Printed by THE HARVEY PRESS, Inc. 109 Iflfayette Street ^few York City BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT WRITIN' HOME. When I got your little letter I just read it through and through ; Well, it made me feel so happy That I kissed it twice for you. Then I had a fleeting vision Of the russet apple tree, Where we parted and you promised When you said "Good-bye" to me. Willie Piatt is in the Q. M. — Ran across him once or twice. I was never stuck on Willie, Though you thought that he was nice. Now he doesn't look so nifty In his shirt and campaign hat ; He was nothing but a Sissy — He may soon get over that. Jimmy Blunt's a "wagon soldier," But you never cared for Jim. If you knew him just like I do, You would soon get sweet on him. Full of pep, he'll get promotion — On his piece he's Number One. He's the gink who swings the breech block- Gunner next — ^that's getting on. You should see me when I'm freighted With my baggage — called a kit. Through tfie mud they take us hiking, Rain or shine, to keep us fit. There's a fellow walks before me — Well, I wonder how he feels. There's a "Dago" walks behind me Who keeps stepping on my heels. In the morning when I'm sleepy Some one shouts out, "Reveille" ! From that minute till it's bedtime They keep popping it to me. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT Hash and mush, and slum and coflfee, Slabs of beef and corned cow — Got my goat at first, but, Honey, I'm sure eating of them now. I was Cook's Police last Simday — Some promotion, let me say. There at home they called me Bobby, But 'round here they call me "Hey" I There's an officer or non-com All the time upon our track With "Fall in! Right dress! Front! Forward!" Or some other kind of crack. Well, it's time to hit the feathers. So I'll say, "Good luck, good night." I'll be looking for a letter Soon again — I know you'll write. Now, I know I needn't say it. That my heart to you is true; That God never made another Half as beautiful as you. Xluick Fatigue Call. With a pick and with a shovel, and with a hoe; With a sentry at your back you won't say no; With a pick and with <• shovel, and with a hoe — Down in the ditch you go. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT CLEAR THE WAY. From Duluth to Kansas City, From St. Louis to Mobile, We are here to do some scrapping With the rifle and the steel. From the States beyond the Rockies To the East of Yankee Land, We are here to teach the Dutchman And to make him understand. Chorus: On the firing line you'll find us, While the girls we left behind us Keep the stuff we need a-moving From the Gulf to Boston Bay. With Old Glory floating o'er us, And the Dutchman there before us, Pull your hat down on your coco. Let her rip and clear the way. We have housed the crazy Dutchman, We have helped him in his need. Taught him decent Christian language. Gave him freedom for his creed. When he came to God's Own Country, Down and out, we shook his hand ; We are here to civilize him And to make him understand. Take this belt of ammunition, To your rifle feed a clip ; Hold her steady when you're firing. Aim her low and let her rip. Don't get rattled, don't get shaky, Keep your head and use your sand. For we're here to teach the Dutchman And to make him understand. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE EAGLE ON THE REGIMENTAL FLAG. On passing near headquarters in the middle of the night. By the standard and the flag outside the tent; I halted for a moment, then I started in affright, For a scream from out a casing through me went. "Oh I You don't know this regiment like I do"— 'Twas the eagle and his head began to wag — "Oh! You don't know the 'old man' just like I do," Said the eagle on the regimental flag. Regaining my composure then I asked him if he'd tell Of the "old man's" chance of getting a B C; He perched upon the lance tip, balanced there and said "O Hell! That's a regimental joke, believea me. For they all know in Washington what I do — Say! The 'old man' hasn't any show or drag— Oh! You don't know the knocks he gets like I do," Said the eagle on the regimental flag. When will we have an Array of the proper shape and size? Will we ever get promotion any more? Who will we go to war with next? — the blood rushed to his eyes — Then he hopped upon a ridge pole where he swore. Oh! You don't know The Congress just like I do — Say! This coming war to it is but a gag — Keep rooting for an Army just like I do", Said the eagle on the regimental flag. I meet him of an evening when they take him to revievir. Then he kind of nods at me or gives a wink; He's watching squirts and fossils and he knows a thing or two That you'd hate to see spread out in printers' ink. For he knows every little thing that you do And it's filed on your elimination tag; He's watching out for "coffee coolers" — ^you, too; That's the kind of bird that's now upon the flag. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT "COME ALONG." We're a band of Yankee Soldiers, From the little old U. S. ; Just a solid delegation. Sent to straighten out this mess; Does the Dutchmen know we're coming. Is he sorry ? Well, I guess ; We're marching on the road to Germany. Chorus : Come along! Come along! Come along! You may hear the bugles say. As the regiments move out, And the bands begin to play. Come along! Come along! Come along! It's good by! Good luck! Hurrah! We're marching on the road to Germany. We have heard the foolish gabble Of the Kaiser and his band. We have seen the desolation Of his bloody, withered hand; Now we answer in a manner That they soon will understand ; We're marching on the road to Germany. Keep your eye on Winsom Willy, It's his last time at. the bat; They have called two strikes upon him. Now he can't tell where he's at; The one we'll put across him Will send Willy to the mat; We're marching on the road to Germany. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT IN THE U. S. INFANTRY. From the halls of Montezuma To the rice fields of Luzon, We have marched and fought together, Still we're marching, marching on. From the plains of Arizona To the hills of Siboney, We have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. We have marched and fought As a soldier ought, In the U. S. INFANTRY. From Missouri's rolling torrent To the Rockies' snow-capped cones ; Each West'rn pra'rie trail and slope We have salted with our bones. From the snows of the Dakotas To the streets of Santa Fe, We have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. We have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. There's a cloud bedims the future ; I can see its shadow there ; I hear a distant voice repeat, "Infantry, prepare, prepare !" 'Tis the voice of home and nation And it calls to you and me. Who have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. Who have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT Fill up your glass, old comrade brave, Give me your trigger hand ; We'll drink this toast in flowing bowl By the camp fire where we stand. Here's the sign of the crossed rifles — 'Tis the badge of you and me. Who have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. Who have marched and fought As a soldier ought. In the U. S. INFANTRY. LITTLE SWEETHEART. Little sweetheart, come and kiss me. We may never meet again. We may never stroll together Down the dear, old shady lane. Years to come may bring us sorrow That our hearts but little know ; Still, of care we should not borrow. Come and kiss me e're I go. Little sweetheart, come and kiss me. Come and whisper soft and low That you'll miss me, sadly miss me As I wander to and fro. Little sweetheart, come and kiss me. Silver threads are in your hair. Evening calls with golden greeting. Still to me you're fresh and fair. All our clouds had silver lining, Love still leads and points the way, While around our hearts entwining Roses fresh with dews of May. 10 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE CRUCIBLE. "Fall in I Left face I Right dress! Eyes front! Count fours! One! Two! Three! Four! This momin' here I'm going to try to teach yees somthin' more, 'Tis time yees wint into the ranks, 'tis time yees wint on guard. There's only three nights now in bed; the juty here it is hard. "The buttons on ye're blouse, DeVoe, need cleanin' — de ye mind? There's lots av tripley at ye're hand — pull down ye're blouse behind! Bumgardner, don't turn out agin with dirty looliin' shoes. Ye're cartridge box is filthy, Fisk; Whose heel-ball do ye use? "Now mind— Fours right! March! One! Two! One!— Step out— One! Two!— McCain Fitzgerald, ye'll step on ye're face, ye're not in step at all. Halt! What's the use av tryin' to do what can't be done? Be min! Why man alive, ye're not a goat — We'll try that same agin. " — ^Arrah! Wirra! Wirra! Wirra! — What's happened to ye're backs? Yees look no more like soldiers thin the backside av two hacks. Maloney, could ye see yerself — ye Sixty-ninth milish; Ye'd think ye were a soldier — yes; a soldier! Nabochlish! "Fours left!— The pivot's on the left! March! Halt! That's not so bad. Left wheel! Be aisey! Mind ye're step. March! Halt! That's good, bedad. Just keep ye're minds from wanderin' to wimmin and the town. Osinskey, is ye're gallus broke? Ye're pants is fallin' down. "Kerkushkigin, or v/hat's ye're name, ye're not in Russia now; Ye're stomach's not ye're chest, me lad. Don't stand there like a cow. I like a soldier, but ye're not. -What's ailin' ye there. Hunt? McGinnis, ye're a — ah — ah — ah — . All yees eyes to front! "Right forward! Fours right! March! That's it. Fours left! About, March! Fine! Fours right! March! Halt! Be steady, min! Dress up there on the line! Front! Holy Moses! Who done that? That's you, I know ye, Flynn — Do it agin another time, ye won't do it agin. "I've drilled yees for six weeks and more, and still ye're just a sight; Pay 'tintion there to what I say, ye baboons on the right. I'd take a lot av granny hags from County of Armagh And turn out better soldiers thin — Ye're soldiers! — ^Yis! Moryah! BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 11 "Ye're goin' backward all the time. Yees hear me what I sed? Schooneberger, what's got into ye? Stand up! Hold up ye're head! It's worse thin shovin' out the tide, this teachin' yees the drill. O'Flaherty, ye omadhawn, ye're fixin' for the "mill." "P'rade rest! We'll try a tour on post. Step out here, you, McGee; Ye're post is from that bush to that. I'll post ye and ye'll see If all the work I'm doin' here is worth a cint at all. Just keep ye're mind on me a while — I'm manin' yee, McCall. "Well, here I am. Grand rounds! Go on; say something — say it quick — Advance one to be recognized. Don't stand there like a stick! Ye thraneen trippers over there! Ye clod-hoppers from Cork; Don't think ye're playin' Jew's harps on the Bowery av New York. "Mayhuskey, hould ye're rifle like a rifle in ye're hand; It's not a gander bitin' ye— yer fist's above the band. And Woodford, every time I put ye in a non-com's place Ye lose ye're head and sinses,too — I see it in ye'r face. "'Shure! Carry arms! Hah! Reverse arms! Charge bay'nets! Good! Stand fast! At last yees know that min can't charge from reverse arms. At last I Rise up ye'r butt there, Ferguson. That's it — ^it's well ye know. Karacknack, get more push, me lad, ye'r manule is too slow. "The curse av Crummel on ye're head! McGovern, there ye go! A small gossoon from Currahmore has sinse enough to know That right is right and left is left. Pay 'tintion there, Malone; Ye're thicker thin the — th — th — th — the big gun av Athlone. "1 want yees in the man-u-el to come down with thim butts^ With snap and vim and ginger and — Be soldier min, ye scutts. I want each mother's son av yees to stand up and keep cool. And look each other in the eye as bold as Finn McCool. Now. Right be file! March! Steady there— Step out— One! Two! Onel Halt! Av all the th — th— ^wat'l I say — Hamburger, that ye're fault. O'Reilly, ye're not in the bogs in County av Mayo; Ye're left foot's not ye're right foot, man — step out and point ye're toe. "Left face! Right dress! Front! Shoulder arms! Ye're hopeless, I snre think. It's six months more av this and thin— ^'Twould drive a saint to drink! Gillhooley, ye're the worst av all; ye're just a plain scrawdhawn; And, Murphy, ye remind me av a dried up leprachawn. 12 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT "Ye're not convicts, nor nagur slaves, nor criminals, that I know. But soldiers av the U. S. A.— look up whin out yees go; And whin ye're broke, don't hang around like bums and blackguards do. But strike out for ye're quarters and get there before Tattoo. "Ye're doin' better all the time; today thfc best av all. Ye're deaf and dumb till I get through. I know that that's Recall. The finest lot av fresh recruits— McCue, I'll till ye this 111 have a crow to pluck with ye. Hahi Arms aporti Dismissl" "SPITTY" WAINWRIGHT'S KICK. One noon time, just as mess call went, the "old man" getting gay, Came poking round the kitchen in a nosey kind of way. Asked what we had for dinner, if the "chow" was good and hot; He lifted up the cover of each kettle and each pot. He tasted of the "murphys", of the pork ,and of the beans. Then drank a cup of coffee and got stuck upon the greens. He strolled around the dining room inspecting bread and pie. But when he asked for "grab" complaints— I swan! I thought I'd die. Up rose bold "Spitty" Wainwright and "Sis-sis-sis-Sir" said he. Then all the "fellers" rested and some murmured, "Hully Gee I" The crowd looked round at "Spitty" with a most inquiring air; Said he: "The outside of my pork is all full of short, stiff hair." "Just issue unto Wainwright", said the "old man" to O'Rourke, "A razor and a shaving brush to shave his piece of pork". Then "Spitty" said, "I thank you, sir," as straight faced as the Pope, And asked him if he'd issue too, a piece of shaving soap. We couldn't stop the laughing, but the "old man" didn't stay. He grinned a military grin and marched himself away; When laugh and roar had simmered down, said "Spitty" then to me, "I-I-I-I-I'U b-b-b-bet you t-t-t-that's the fif-fif-first kick from t-t-t-the men of co-co-comp'ny "B". BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 13 THE BUGLER OF THE GREY. We made our camp one evening near an old historic town, In vale of Shenandoah, as the sun was going down; "Retreat" had echoed softly from the hills and died away, When to the Major's tent there came a housewife old and grey. "My husband fought at Gettysburg when Pickett charged the hill, "He wore the dear old South'm grey, such things are God's own will; "He blew the trumpet calls that day, that day we can't forget, "That fateful day of Gettysburg, where Dixie paid her debt. "He's dying now, just down the road, and asks if you will send, "The bugles to our cottage door to cheer his coming end. "He longs to hear the stirring calls, the calls he used to play, "From Knoxville town to Gettysburg, with Pickett's men in grey". The bugles sang "First Call", then paused and sounded "Reveille", The Soldier heeded not till they sent forth "The Assembly"; Then up he sat, his shoulders squared, and loudly answered "Here!"; This soldier of the grey brigades that scorned death, flight and fear. At sounding of "Fatigue" there stole a smile across his face. When "Guardmount" went he still sat firm and steady in his place; But when "Retreat's" low notes had died a tear stole to the eye Of Pickett's man who listened while the bugles said "Good bye". Next came "Tattoo", his last "Tattoo", he scarcely seemed to hear, "To Arms!" "To Arms I" "The Charge!" "The Charge!" He answered with a cheer; A screaming cheer, pitched high and sharp, he gave, then backward fell. The bugler of famed Gettysburg had charged with "rebel yell." "Cease Firing"! called the bugles now, then "Sandy" and "Payday". A gallant life was ebbing fast as motionless he lay. The plaintive notes of "Taps" brought tears to watchers by his side. But Pickett's man said bravely "Here", and like a soldier died. The "Yankee" uniform he fought a willing escort gave. We fired three volleys to the grey across his honored grave. As o'er the bier of Pickett's man the notes of farewell rang. We proudly thought: "In us lives on the blood from which he sprang." 14 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE "DOUGHBOYS" GO MARCHING ALONG. From the North, from the South, East and West, and round about, The "Doughboys" go marching along. Never quit, never fail. But keep close on the trail — The "Doughboys" go marching along. CHORUS One! Two! Three! (Hurrah) for the fighting Infantry. We've blazed the way together, nous avon. Here we come ! Oh, well ! You can always tell When the "Doughboys" go marching along. Over here, over there. At the front or an3rwhere. The "Doughboys" go marching along. Hard and fit — ^tum us loose. Try to stop us — what's the use ? The "Doughboys" go marching along. U. S. A., don't forget. We're American. You bet ! The "Doughboys" go marching along. Stars and Stripes floating free. Onward ! Onward ! Infantry ! The "Doughboys" go marching along. CHORUS For me the crossed can - nons They nev er will run The lim-ber and roll ing 'Cai Json The trace and the coU-ar, The BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 15 THE RED GUIDON. Come fill up your tankards, I'll give you a toast — We'll drink to the Artillery ; The first in the battle, the last at its post — Old comrades, drink standing with me. To friends who have passed o'er the last long divide, Their spirit is still marching on. The spirit of those who once rode side by side With the guns of the Red Guidon. Chorus : For me the crossed cannons They never will run — The limber and rolling caisson. The trace and the collar. The 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 it's red white and blue That streams in the breeze overhead. We've joked and we've laughed in the campfire's red glare From Cuba to distant Luzon, And told the old stories that drive away care Near the tents of the Red Guidon. Come! Up with your tankards and drink long and deep. Brave hearts ever gallant and true. To those who now rest in their long peaceful sleep. They once wore the red and the blue. Prove true in the future as they in the past Old comrades of gun and caisson; Then go to your God like a soldier at last If you fall near the Red Guidon. 16 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT ME BUNKIE AND I. He joined us at Russell and didn't know beans. Took on in St. Louis — no cash in his jeans; He drilled with a shovel, a pick and a hoe. And "struck" for the "top's" wife, first house on the row; Scrubbed tins in the kitchen and wrestled the pots. Policed in the stables with old Baldy Watts; I "fell for his tin type", yet never knew why — We're one loop and toggle, me bunkie and I. He pulls a strong wire with the post's "Holy Joe", The Bible holds nothing that "Chump" doesn't know; From cover to cover he "saveys" the "sharps" That raised Cain down here, but are now playing harps; He's sand, grit and ginger, and red pepper, too; A soldier, a scrapper, a sport through and through; I'm "stuck on his 'mug'", still I couldn't tell why, We soldier together, me bunkie and I. One day big Tim Fagan — his Irish was up — Called bunkie a "psalm-singin', craw-thumpin' pup". Old bunkie said nothing, I fixed it they'd meet Just back of the canteen right after retreat; He walloped Tim Fagan behind the canteen. Such scrappin' as that was I never have seen; Tim's gang tried to rush us — I'll tell you no lie — We dusted their jackets, me bunkie and I. He doesn't touch liquor, he hasn't a guile. He's always on deck when I'm broke for a "smile"; Guard mornings, just after I'm back from a spree, Me kit's there all ready and shining for me; He never forgets the old folks in the East, But sends them each pay day six "cart wheels" at least; He's white through and through and as straight as a die. We're same as two brothers, me bunkie and I. He's sober and steady, and decent and strong, I booze and go absent, "dead beat", "get in wrong"; They've 'Tausted" me often— I've had my last show- He never has asked me to stop or go slow; BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 17 I know that he knows that I know I must drink, He never has hinted to brace up and think; Now that's why I like him— no preaching, that's why, We pull well together, me bunkie and I. Some things men must smother 'way down in their souls, 'Mid ashes and cinders that fill up the holes Burnt' deep by a fire that once flamed in the night, But now hide the scorch of the turf in the light. Spent fires of the heart mid your ashes and dust. Why count o'er the nails of your wood, now all rust — Perhaps Bunkie "saveys", he never asked why— That's just why we're chummy, me bunkie and I. I'll stand by me bunkie through thick and through thin. With jag on or sober I'll back him to win; You can't get him rattled, he'll never "dead beat". But soldiers it straight from "First Call" to "Retreat"; He stands up for me — ^with but two years to serve — Though everything's gone that I've had but me nerve; I'm "stuck on his mug"; H^s a man, that is why We "hang out" together, me bunkie and I. I CAN'T FORGET. The day has gone, the night is falling, Gray shadows gather o'er the lea, A voice within my heart keeps calling To thoughts of thee, to thoughts of thee ; To days long gone since first I met you, To years of waiting, waiting yet, I only know that still I love you, I only know I can't forget. The Sim will shine again tomorrow. The birds will flit from tree to tree, AH nature smile — with me a sorrow Because my heart cries out for thee; A hopeless cry for hope may vanish, Alfiiough my love endureth yet. My heart cannot thy mem'ry banish, I only know I can't forget. 18 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT WE MET. We met, 'twas at the ball last night, One dance — I hoped for two ; That witching smile, those laughing eyes Still call me back to you. A pause, a chat How could I hope That you would not forget? I wonder if you'll ever know I call you Violet. Chorus : You look to me like violets With their perfume of the spring. That bloom beside a laughing stream Where the birds are on the wing. Of all the dainty buds that peep From their veils of morning dew. You look to me like violets ; Now, how do I look to you ? The ball was o'er ; you said, "Good night" I pressed your little hand ; Again for me that witching smile, I hoped you'd understand. A blossom lingered on your muff — 'Tis mine. I guard it yet And prize it as a treasured thing. This drooping violet. I dream my dreams — sweet foolish dreams- Of happiness and you ; I wonder if such dreams as mine By any chance come true. But who can tell ? One never knows — 'Twas just by chance we met — Perhaps some day I'll hold your hand And call you Violet. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 19 THE REAL SOLDIER MAN. Without introduction, without word or sign, You know him at sight be he staff, corps or line; From Preble to Casey, from Brady to Bliss, You've picked him unaided, you never can miss. The clothing he wears, be it old or his best. Blue, drab, white or khaki, it looks like the rest; His kit is not made on a different plan. Yet somehow you think — there's a real soldier man. Now where is the brand which you've seen in your mind, While blind to the man just in front or behind? The question's unanswered/ 'tis hard to explain ; You've picked him sub-conscious again and again. In heart of the tropics mid moisture and heat, In posts of the North mid their blizzards and sleet. On plains of the West, 'neath his coating of tan. You never mistake him — the real soldier man. He's upright and loyal, brave, honest and true. With heart, kit and purse always open to you, Obeys every order and counts not the cost. Though comrades be dying, retreating or lost ; A help to the weak in their hour of despair, A smile for their hopes and a tear for their care ; Go find me his equal "outside" if you can, Of nature's best effort — the real soldier man. Assembly. Moaerdte ^^ Sound twice I had a piece of pork. Which I stuck upon a fork And gave to a red*headed rookie like you. 20 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT HOW IT HAPPENED. The Fourth had rolled around again — The day we celebrate. The "Dutch Brigade" and "Irish Kings" Both fixed upon this date To picnic down at "Squaw Creek Spring." The Dutch had "Pilsner Brew," The "Irish Kings" ham sandwiches And jugs of "Mountain Dew." From "K" troop came the "Dutch Brigade," The "Irish Kings" from "I" ; They never chummed as soldiers should — You know the reason why. Dame Nature to the Dutchman gave Great patience and content ; To Irishmen a nervousness That leads to devilment. With jabs of wit and bantering They met close by the spring ; They opened up the "brew" and "dew," Then both commenced to sing. 'Twas "Schnitzelbank" and "Lauterbach," "Killamey," "Qan-na-gael" ; The gophers rushed into Sieir holes, The rabbits "hit the trail." The "Dutch Brigade" drank lager beer. Sang songs of Fatherland ; The "Irish Kings" drank whiskey "straight"- No water — understand? They cursed the British lion, too ; Sang "Hagerty's Sheebeen" ; "They're hanging men and women for The wearing of the green." McCormack to McManus said, "I'll stop thim furrin songs ; They're makin' fun av I-er-land, And jokin' at her wrongs. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 21 We're min, or maybe wimmin — what ! Just sittin' here alone ; While furriners are laughin' at The holy blarney stone." "Ye bunch av 'far down' spalpeens — Come ! We'll right our country's wrongs, For honor av Ould I-er-land ; Down with thim German songs." 'Twas just the chance they all wished for — Old Ireland ; her abuse — The Germans singing, "Wacht am Rhein" ; An elegant excuse. They jumped upon their feet and charged The Germans with a yell. And cries of "Green above the red" — That fight, I blush to tell. Each Dutchman there a bottle seized. Faced front and stood his ground — The list of casualties On record may be found. All picnics are discomforting. With plates of scrambled "chow" ; Sure riler of ill temperament. Precursor of a row. Let's not condemn good whiskey, then. Or frown on lager beer. The fighting disposition is Behind all "scraps," I fear. While strolling through the post next day I saw to my surprise These legends written out in chalk — A word unto the wise. On fence outside the hospital : "The Dutch Brigade camps here" ; The one close to the guard house read : "The Irish Kings live here." 22 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE VALEDICTORY. Now look here, you bunch of rookies, listen well to what I say, (Said the sergeant as he stood us in the shade that Summer's day); For tomorrow you'll be soldiers, and you'll fill a soldier's place — Don't forget you wear the uniform, but shield it from disgrace. Chorus: Be a soldier, a U. S. soldier. Be a soldier of the Army — U. S. A. Always ready — cool and steady — That's the kind of soldier men we need today. You may drink some if you want it — that's a thing that's up to you; Keep away from dives and bar-rooms when you're wearing of the blue; A beer or two won't hurt you — ^if you stop at that all right; It's the whiskey, and the treating till you're full, that starts the fight. When an order comes obey it — obey promptly with a will; It's a squab that's not a soldier you'U find "holding down the mill"; There's a non-com placed above you — ^if you buck him you're a fool. He's a soldier man like you are, and a good one as a rule. When you're on the march and thirsty take a swig, but not a drink. For a water loaded stomach puts the marcher on the blink; Don't keep pecking at your ration till the call to mess you hear, Roadside snacks of pie are deadly, on the march beware of beer. In the camp, if you are walking, pay attention to your feet; If you're mounted watch your clothing, all the part that's next your seat; Don't lie down in rain-soaked blankets, or you'll chill beyond a doubt. Take the sleep that's coming to you, or you'll soon be down and out. Know your kit and your equipment, keep them clean, your person, too; When the touch and go is coming all things may depend on you; Know your business as a soldier, have your information pat, Don't fall down on things expected and on soldier lore at that. When you're ordered to move forward and you're on the line in front. You'll feel nervous; don't get rattled, show your grit and do your stunt; If they press you hot hold steady, till you're ordered to retreat, It's the dogged holding to it that will save you from defeat BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 23 Every man is half a coward at the bottom of his heart. That's the reason why green soldiers fail to stick and do their part; That's the reason why civilians to whom soldiering is strange, Are as easily stampeded as a "round up" on the range. See that flag which floats above us — men like you have put it there — 'Tis the pride and trust of millions — would to God they would prepare! What it stands for, you too stand for — freedom, faith, hope, honor, right; God Almighty, grant us courage to uphold it day and night! ON THE TRAIL OF LOCO BILLY. There's a locoed guy in Dutchland Who has blazed a bloody trail ; We have sat and talked about him Till our line of gab is stale. He's the murdering Apache Who has started up this muss. Come ! We'll get his scalp and keep it ; It's a job that's up to us. Chorus : On the trail of loco Billy, Gol darn loco Billy. On the trail of loco Billy, After his scalp we go. We are the chaps he joked about, We are the lads who'll smoke him out. On the trail of loco Billy, Billy, the Dutch loco. Oh, his trail is wide and bloody, But we're coming to its end ; There's his tepee in the willows, See his smoke around the bend. We've no time to hold a pow-wow. For the sun is in the West ; Draw a bead upon his gizzard. Lift his scalp — we need a rest. 24 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT OUR "OLD MAN". He's rather pleasimt in his way— is our "old man". We get along from day to day — with our "old man". When things go right he's all simshine. When things go wrong — then down the line We "duck it"— while the ducking's fine— from our "old man." His voice is kind of rough but low — ^is our "old man's". Good English comes with easy flow from our "old man". But out at drill you'll hear a roar That's louder far by four times four Than any voice you've heard before — ^it's our "old man". Now he can take a soldier "mob" — can our "old man". And roast and baste it on the hob — can our "old man". Until the hair upon each back Stands like a dog's at the attack. Then drill it with a vim and smack — can our "old man". Just get bim riled and cock your ear— for our "old man," Some wondrous words you're apt to hear from our "old man"; A most artistic, stinging lash Of words designed to "cook your hash". And warn you from reply too brash to our "old man". Yet meet him on the street or car — meet our "old man". He'll speak and ask you how you are — will our "old man" He knows a soldier's why and how, He'U ask about "nights in" and "chow". Hell treat you fair in every row — will our "old man". Some men run wild, some soldiers do — ^well our "old man" Will call those in and ask their view— will our "old man"; But when he calls a chronic case, No matter what his age or race. Hell flay him there before his face— will our "old man". BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 25 "We'll have no 'guard house bums' to feed,"— says our "old man", "Confinement there you rarely need" — says our "old man". A thoughtless breach he'll soon forget For he's no "D F" martinet- He "saveys" soldier men, you bet — does our "old man". We've fought through tropic mud and rain with our "old man", ■We'd fight through H with him, that's plain — ^with our "old man". Why man he'd share his last "hard-tack". The last small drink hid in his pack. Or give the shirt from off his back— That's our "Old Man". TOBYHANNA MARY. Near the town of Tobyhanna, in the hills of Pocano, Where the mountain laurel blossoms and the huckleberries grow; There's a little "chicken" waiting till the happy month of May, When I'll call her on the telephone, and this is what I'll say: Chorus: "Hello! Hello! Tobyhanna Mary. Hello! Hello! We're coming back again; Coming back to Tobyhanna On the road of Lackawanna; Back again to Tobyhanna Mary." She was picking huckleberries when I met her on the range. She accosted me quite simply, but I didn't think it strange When I asked her what her name was; in a simple kind of way. She replied: "My name is Mary." It was up to me to say: Chorus: Hello! Hello! Tobyhanna Mary. Oh! the rocks are hard and ragged, and the brush is high and thick. But the soldier men keep grubbing with the shovel and the pick; Oh! the tents are wet and windy, but 'tis there that I would stay With my Tobyhanna Mary, 'till they order us away." 26 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE BLARNEY STONE. There's a story handed down in Irish legend, Let me tell it, as I heard it, unto you; If you ever take a trip to County Galway You may prove it to yourself and find it true; 'Tis the legend of the River Shannon water Where it meets the fairy flood below Athlone; You must drink of it on Patrick's day, at midnight, Then be silent till you've kissed the Blarney stone. Chorus: 'Tis yourself may use the Blarney Like a native of Kiilarney, 'Tis yourself will feel light hearted As a king upon his throne; Men and maids will try to charm you. Not a thing at all can harm you If you drink of Shannon water And then kiss the Blarney stone. There's a fairy well in Galway, near its border. And it overflows its brim just once a year, Its clear waters rush into the river Shannon On St. Patrick's day at midnight — have no fear; If the faith of Christian hope is strong within you. Make a pilgrimage at midnight — go alone — From your hand sip thrice the flowing river water But be silent till you've kissed the Blarney stone. Many years ago there lived in Coimty Galway A most holy man near this enchanted well. From its water he drew forth the stone called "Blarney" On its side, in gaelic, carved a magic spell; Should you seek its gift, prepared in faith and silence. Cleansed by waters of the river — Peace unknown Will be yours with health and happiness forever When your lips have lightly touched the Blarney stone. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 27 INSPECTED AND CONDEMNED. "Here's your horse," cried the auctioneer, (A trooper led him in) "He's strong and sound, a worker, too, Clean as a new-made pin. "What am I bid to start him off?" (The crowd jeered where it sat) "Twelve dollars bid ! Twelve twenty-five ! Who'll make it thirteen flat ?" A dark brown gelding, fifteen two. Just rising eighteen year. A star and snip ; the right hind white ; Wire scar behind the ear. U. S. I. C. burnt on near arm ; C. 5 upon near thigh, A bullet's mark across the breast, Received in years gone by. I choke, my thoughts fly through the years. To days of long ago, With "C" troop camping near the streams Fed by the mountain snow. The carbine's crack. The savage yell. To horse ! The troopers cheer. The flying "clouts." The saber's flash. I charge on "Carbineer." 'Tis but a horse, a small brown horse. Why should I grieve or care? He served with me for twelve long years That flag you see tip there. Companion of the camp and trail. True friend who knew no fear ; To save him from an unkind hand I'd die for "Carbineer." 28 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT UNDER FIRE. We were out in front, just waiting — ^"twas my first time under fire — The "gink" who says it's nothing is a "ducker" or a liar; Take myself^I felt unhappy, waiting for a shot to hit — While my heart kept pounding awful — like se-piti se-piti se-pitt I was feeling worse than nervous — let us call it plain old scare, For my teeth went chitter — chatter and the damp was in my hair; Lips and tongue felt dry and dusty, and my ears began to ring. And I couldn't load my rifle, no nor do a blasted thing. Then Dame Nature up and called me and she pointed to the rear, Then my stomach kind of sickened, sagged way down and acted queer; Then the sweat began to trickle in a chilly, clammy stream, And a sense of falling seized me, like one gets while in a dream. Mental faculties kept working and the thing within me cried — "Take me out of here, you bonehead, make a sneak and do a hide; "Let the other fellows fight it, you are only a recruit. "You're too young to lose your number, and you don't know how to shoot". I lay flatter on my stomach and pressed closer to the ground, Then a bullet winged beside me, grazed the turf and plunged arotmd; All the line crept slowly forward, but I didn't try to creep, I felt paralyzed, disabled — ^'twas a nightmare without sleep. Then I looked to left, behind me — ^Would they spot me if I quit? Could I sneak behind a cover where the bullets couldn't hit? Then I tried to crawfish backward, for I wasn't shaking now. Though the bullets kept on whining and the sweat stood on my brow. Well, I hadn't backed a fathom when a voice yelled on my right — "What in blazes are you doing? Are you hit? Get up therel Fightl "Why you white-lunged, dirty coward you're not worth an ounce of lead; "Back another foot you piker, and I'll shoot you through the head". Now that "got my goat" and riled me, and I crawled up to my place. With that non-com close behind me, and a sneer upon his face; And I felt just like a "mucker", like a low-down sneaking whelp. Just a cur without dog's courage— short of everything but yelp. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 29 Then I felt my anger rising 'gainst the thing within my frame- Soul, or liver, heart, or stomach, that had brought upon me shame; "Now", said I, "By G , I'll fix you. D your heart I know you well, "All your cringing now won't save you"— and I jumped up with a yell. "Down, you crazy pinhead rookie t Sergeant I Down him! He'll get shot I" But I "beat them to it", running, for my blood was up and hot; All the line charged close behind me — well, this happened long ago — I was cursed and jeered, and patted — all the same they'll never know. I have fought my share — who hasn't? and I always cringe at fire. The "gink" who says it's nothing is a "ducker" or a liar; Take myself — I feel unhappy fearing that a shot will hit, But the "fellers" think I'm bully, and the "Old Man" thinks I'm IT. KEEP THEM ROLLING. There's the blasted bugle calling from the paulins in the park; Hear the chiefs of sections bawling as we line up in the dark. Get that whiff of "slum" and cofFee? Now we're cursing as we load. Forward! March!— behind the guidon — and we're out upon the road. Chorus: Roll. Roll. Roll. Oh, keep them rolling; Roll. Roll. Roll by battery. Roll. Roll. Roll. Oh, keep them rolling; Rolling in the Field Artillery. There is foam upon the leather and there's sweat upon the hide. As the leads and swings together pull the wheelers to their stride. There's a rumble from each caisson and a rattle from each pole; There's a growl from all the pieces as along the trail we roll. When the guns are hot and smoking and there's blood upon the trail. Keep the shrapnel rolling forward, bursting to the front like hail. Do your damndest, like a soldier, let the beggars see that we Are now sending what's expected from the Field Artillery. 30 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE "HAYBAG". Her name was Maggie "Mag" O'Hare, Transplanted from the County Clare, The land of fighting Irish Celt ; Her fathers there had fought and dwelt. She was queen of "soap-suds" row. The "ranking hay-bag" you'd soon know. She ruled by fear as tyrants do — By fear of things she'd say of you. "Mag" washed the "duds" of Comp'ny "K," And raised the price, I've heard men say ; She raised Cain, too, with things out there. This better half of Pat O'Hare. She went to mass, confession, too ; Collected for the priest, who knew That, though her tongue was one to fear. Her heart was as spring water clear. "Mag" sold cheap whiskey on the sly. Retailed "Reloaders" some called pie, Abused the "hay-bags" on the row. Called each and all a so-and-so. Good reputations could not last, When she raked up the bitter past. 'Twere better far to speak her fair. Than risk the wrath of "Mag" O'Hare. She read the Captain's inmost soul. The heart of each man on the roll, Foretold promotions, "bobtails," too. And, strange, her forecasts all came true. Each man would bring his soldier woe To "Mag," who'd sooth in accents low ; Each knew full well she'd tell each thing. But still his woe had lost its sting. She catered to the Captain's wife With tales of post and barracks life, Each hint of scandal, "spat" or squall. She'd tell in full — she knew them all. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 31 She always drank her whiskey "neat," At "forty-five" was hard to beat ; Athop or ball, who could compare With "Mag" ? — she danced each number there. Our orders came, we moved doAvn South, Where yellow scourge of death broke out And thinned the ranks of Comp'ny "K." "Mag" said, "Me juty is to stay." Who watched by night the pluming souls Of those consumed by fever's coals? Who calmed each death with tears and prayer? 'Twas Comp'ny "hay-gab" "Mag" O'Hare. OVER THE TOP. Over the top at the peep of the day, Trifles we treasured are now in our way ; All but the bayonet, rifle and knife, Tools of the soldier in struggle and strife. Slouching along through the mud and the rain. Over the bodies of wounded and slain ; Onward, plod onward, with never a stop. On through inferno, we're over the top. Over the top at the wave of a hand. Cowards are heroes in this "No Man's Land" ; On through the dawn that must follow the night, Dodging the craters to left and to right. Forward ! With steps measured, plodding and slow. Death has no terrors while stalking the foe ; Manhood and freedom today is our prop. Clean out the Huns, we are over the top. Over the top, with revenge in each heart. Brothers and fathers are doing their part ; Down on each trench with the knife and grenade. Fighting like wolves 'mid the fierce cannonade. Bloody the steel which we hold in our hand ; Death to the last of this treacherous band ; Reap the land clean of its venomous crop. Waste and destruction lie over the top. 32 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT McCANN OF THE SIGNALS. McCann of the Signals lay dying— A Moro had just run amuck ; We knew that there wasn't a surgeon This side of Laguna— what luck I We all knew that "Mac" knew his finish Was near, though he gave us no sign, But lay where he fell without "beefing," 'Longside of the telegraph line. Now Mac was the best operator We had on the Signal Corps force ; With torch, flag, glass, wireless or buzzer. He'd handle the cleanest of "Morse." He kept to himself like a gopher. But always on tap in your need ; He'd listen and lighten your trouble. And silence you'd find was his creed. He drew out a case from his bosom And looked at the picture inside — A girl's, just as fair as a vision. Arrayed in the robes of a bride. Said he : "I'm snuffed out like a taper Exposed to the blast of a gale. But still I love strong, as I told you That night on the campus of Yale." "I've groped like a child in the darkness ; I've whispered your name in the night ; I've lived in a madman's inferno. Illumined by illusions of light. I've hoped when I knew it was hopeless, To Hades I've plunged from the blue ; The dreams that I dreamt are now ended, I'll pray to the spirit of you." "May joys of your life be the sweetest. As sweet as the honey of Greece ; From yellow clad hills of H)miettus, Your pathways encircled by peace. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 33 I'll come, if beyond there's no trammel, To bind down the souls of the true ; I'll come to the shrine of thy beauty, And cling to the spirit of you." We thought as we knelt there beside him. Unable to stifle a tear. That somehow his mind was unbalanced. His words seemed so creepy and queer. He died where he fell — 'neath a palm tree — A Signalman faithful and true; Her picture rests there on his bosom. His spirit abides now with "You." "BAMBOO". Do not cry my little dove of Zamboanga, Mi chiquita movia 1 won't forget ; When the regiment comes back to Zamboanga Yo sere along with it, so don't you fret. Adiosifa mi chiquitita. El Regimiento is on its way ; Adiosita mi Carmencita, Adios siempre tu amore. There are muchas Senoritos in the U. S., But they sabe cosas muchas para me ; No, not one of them is linda like Chiquita When she powders up and looks asi — asi. Your soft "goo-goo" eyes will haunt me on the transport When veo Corregidor abaft the screw ; I'll be sorry then I didn't get a transfer ; When on "bunk fatigue," pensando much of you. When the regiment comes back to Zamboanga Chica sera esperando para me, Comprare for her zapatos, ropa hlanca, At Gonzales, Calle Real 23. 34 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT HE WAS GENERALLY IRISH. He was generally Irish — that's a military race — With a fist as hard as granite and the Celt stamped on his face; He was humorous, sarcastic, with expressions so tuiique You would pause with admiration every time you heard him speak. He believed in church and clergy — ^when he could he went to mass^ Yet he'd drink a few "Fixed Bay'nets" with the gang when off on pass; He was then one of the "fellers" till his pass was up, when he Was First Sergeant, Dennis Nolan— toe the mark and "HuUy Gee I" He was human with his Captain, cold, official with the "Luffs"; No, you couldn't "run it on him", for he'd call your silly bluffs; He hadn't any fav'rites and he hadn't any clique. But he always loved a soldier be he "Chummy", "Krout" or "Mick". He would "climb" a slouchy rookey till he straightened out his back; Then he'd "crawl" him from his shoe-strings to his rifle in the rack; Next he'd stand out there "fominst" him and he'd "jump" him once "agin" Whilst he asked him why they 'listed brats instead of full grown "min". He just hated sneaks and liars — ^wouldn't stand for muss or dirt; Still he'd wink at "honest drinkin'". "Five or six would never hurt". When the vinegar within them in the barrack-room raised Hell He would order them to scrap it with the gloves in the "kurrell". If he ordered "Get your blankets", even Murtha or McGill, Drunk or sober, went and got them and he'd march him to the "mill"; For it didn't pay to "buck" him — it was up to you to start — Or he'd take you there unconscious, on your back or in a cart. In the camp and in the barracks you could always find him in; Ev'ry stitch of blue upon him looking like a new made pin; No, he wouldn't stoop to gossip or repeat the things he knew Though he couldn't help but hear things from first roll-call to "tattoo". He has gone — ^the Lord be with him — he has vanished with the past; May the sunshine of contentment on his few short years be cast. Have we much improved upon him as a U. S. soldier man? No. I really think we haven't. I feel sure we never can. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 35 "TAKING ON AGAIN". r got my "buzzard" in my hand and cashed my "finals", too. Then said good bye to all the gang— 'twas all that I could do To keep from choking down a grunt I felt would be a sob— For I had served the colors there with all of that "old mob". Served with the "fellers" in the field and post. Served in the outfit that I love the most, Served from Atlantic to the Orient, Served with the colors of the regiment. I wake up in the morning when there's scarcely light to see And wonder why I didn't hear "first call for reveiUe"; My thoughts are always drifting back to camps in sun and rain. To "Guardmount;* "Mess," "Retreat" and "Taps"— I*U soon "take on again." I miss the ways of soldier life— a life that's clean and free— I miss the joke and roaring laugh of men who served with me; I'm free I know, if one is free who never felt a chain— I want to be a soldier still— I'll soon "take on again". When "fellers" pass me in the street my heart jumps to my throat. When listening to a passing band I hear the bugle's note; I'm not content nor happy now— my thoughts I can't explain— The regiment is still down South— I'll soon "take on again". There's something in the soldier's life that holds me by the heart. The look and smell of soldier gear have lured me from the start; I can't get used to civil life, its grubbing, grinding strain, I'll "hunt a flag" tomorrow sure— I'm "taking on again". Adjutant's Call. ^ Quick rj/ricrjcj What do you think; What do you think; What do you think of this old guy? Give us a drink; give us a drink; Give us a drink before we die. 36 BALLADS OF THE REGMENT "BALDY". "Baldy" rode the near-side wheeler, Leads and swings strung out in front ; Drove the six upon a "jerk line" — 'Twas a man's job that same stunt. "Spunkey," "Winkie," "Shandy," "Nancy," "La-de;dah" and "Mary Jane"; Wagon piled with soldier dunnage At the forefront of the train. "Come ! You bunch of loafing cripples, Hit the breeze ! Get down and nip ! Snake her out ! Get in the collar !" Then he'd crack his black snake whip. " 'Winkie,' lad ! You'r playing possum ; Git ! You pop-eyed, lop-eared fool ! 'Spunkey !' Darn your lazy carcass ! You'r not fit to be a mule." " 'Shandy' ! What in hell's the matter ?" "Shandy," near-swing, took his trace ; " 'Nancy,' girl ! You quit your bluffin' " — "Nancy," too, would mend her pace. "Them's the boys can do the pullin'. Them's the boys can make her hump ; 'Shandy' ! Damn your hide, I'll skin you !" Then he'd fleck him on the rump. " 'Mary Jane,' come on, old lady ; To liie off-wheel on the right ; 'La-de-dah,' just hold them steady. As a team you'r out of sight. 'Spunkey' ! Take me down ! I'll fan you ! 'Winkie'! Git! Git out o' that ! If you take me down I'll shave you Like the monkey shaved the cat. "Hy ! Wake up ! We're at the Coulee; Boys, we're going through the slough ; There's a ton or two behind you. Them's the mules ! We've got her now !" BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 37 Then he'd slam the brakes upon her As she staggered down the swale ; Both the wheelers in the breeching Digging caulks into the trail. "Sweith." He'd vent a hissing whistle As he eased upon the brake ; "Now, me lads, we're down to cases" — On the jerk line he would shake. "'Spunkey'! 'Winkie'l 'Shandy'! 'Nancy' 1 'Mary Jane' ! Come, let her rip 1" Up the slope would reel the wagon Like a rolling clipper ship. In the camp he'd sleep' beside them. Did the beggars understand All the foolish things he told them As they muzzled face and hand? In the land of some tomorrow, Fleeting shadow of a dream, I would like to meet old "Baldy" With his Army jerk-line team. SOME OTHER OLD POST. Our stuff is all packed, we are ready to move. We'll soon march away from the rut and the groove; The garrison grind, the fatigue and the drill. The guarding of hobos who "hold down the mill." The rubbing, the scrubbing, the full-dress parade; The digging of ditches that never stay made. So good bye Mary, Kate and Rose, Our hearts are sad for you, God knows; Such maids as you 'tis hard to find — Here's to the girls we leave behind. "First Call !" See the crowd how it hangs round the gate, Come strap on your kit and fall in, you'll be late; The band is in front striking up "Dolly Grey", The girls are all wiping the salt tears away. The best of good luck be with her I love most. We're bound out of this for some other old post. 38 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE FIGHTING BATTERY. There's a flash of steel seen glinting by the bend beyond the trees. There's a cloud of dust sent drifting by the changing Autumn breeze; You may hear the clanking rattle of the "apron" and the "shield," As the teams lean to the traces of a batt'ry in the field. Chorus: When a batt'ry to the front goes marching — Marching over hill and vale — There's a little splotch of red keeps waving— Waving down the winding trail; 'Tis the signal of the guidon calling. Calling unto you and me — Calling to the guns, the guns we're serving— In the fighting battery. "Action right"! — a silent signal, and we read it, "Action right"! Now a growling "Halt"! and "Drive on"! — all the limbers out of sight — You may hear the swinging breech blocks as they close upon the round. Then a roar and gliding recoil, and the spades bite in the ground. See the smoking shells ejected, roll to rearward and to right. While the shrapnel with their message scream exultant in their flight; There! Each case has shed its feathers o'er the foeman and his train; "Fire"! "Two hundred more"! Keep firing, fire and load and fire again. There's an uplift in the action of a well served battery; When the Nation call for gunners will we emswer you and me? Will we take our posts as soldiers by the caisson and the trail? Will we answer to the signal of the £^don vrithout fail? THE UNIFORM WE WEAR. From the days of Alexander to the ever present now The uniform, in time of peace, keeps kicking up a row. Be it of color drab or blue, buff, khaki, brown or gray Between the fights the uniform keeps getting in the way. It's not a bit artistic, no one ever said it is, The "O D" is to fight in — when the enemy gets his — The "full dress," blue— who named it?— gives a drinking man a scare — He sees the "chicken gizzards" on this uniform we wear. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 39 In time of peace— "We didn't raise our boys to use a gun"— In time of war they're apt to make a record for a run. We know the sissy bluffers full of talk about "the boys'' And "shooting irons" and pork and beans, and squirrel guns and toys; We've seen the wild hysterics of the females of our land, We've heard the "guff" of mouthy males who shook us by the hand. But when we go to dance or show expecting treatment fair. We fold upon the locker shelf the uniform we wear. The uniform the soldier wears, our fathers wore it too, A sky-blue kersey pantaloons and blouse of navy blue; 'Twas made for men, for virile men who represent the flag, 'Tis only cripples, cads and knaves who treat it as a rag. When blouse and cap are cast aside the thing for which they stand Will die 'neath heel of anarchy — the peace of home and land — The rights you prize as free born men, the happiness you share Are guaranteed to you by this — the uniform we wear. THE ROOKEY'S PRAYER. O, sergeant, guide my wand'ring steps, now halting as I go. Please tell me, as a soldier should, the things that I would know; What must I do to gain a place in barracks, squad and ranks? O, sergeant, tell me what to do — I offer nought but thanks. First sergeant, cook, and cook's police all hate, detest, despise My strivings after soldier lore, discredit my replies. To question answered without guile, with full intent to please. How can I gain approval's smile — how get along with these? The grizzled sergeant, tanned by sun on Arizona's plain. With scowling brow and curling lip glared down, then glared again; He bit the ends of his mustache, the lid dropped o'er one eye, He grumbled something in his throat then spoke and made reply. "You low-down, dirty rookeyl What in blazes do you mean By sounding off and beefing, not a rag upon you clean; Let drink alone, unhump your back, be truthful, if you can. Obey your orders always — stop your yawp and be a man." BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT ; THE ROVER. I've soldiered from Meade to Barrancas, In China and wilds of Cebu ; I've lied like a trooper to women Who thought what I told them was true. I've courted the white and the yellow, The brown and the red and the tan ; But, still, lad, I don't understand them. For women don't think like a man. I've wooed some who stirred the strong passions Walled up in the depths of the heart — Man's wolfish desire for possession. Possession by force, then to part. Some women I've wooed looked like angels. Their hearts like a marrowless bone. Their pitiful lure just their faces. Weak, selfish and cold as a stone. I've wooed some devoid of emotion — Thank God, they are scattered and few- Some spent half their time in devotion, A vent for the mind of a shrew. I've courted the jade and the vixen. The painted, the trollop, the prim — A soldier's pastime for the moment. Such courtings mean nothing to him. I've wooed the deceitful and cunning. The narrow of face near the eyes ; Devour ers of words meant to flatter. True mothers of scandal and lies. I've met some true, faithful, uplifting In thought, word and deed throughout life ; Who'll cling to the man who can win them — The kind, lad, you'll want for a wife. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 41 SWORD OF THE CAVALRY. From Roman through Norman invader In plastron or loose gaberdine, Through hands of the holy Crusader Campaigning in far Palestine. From bold cavalier and brave lancer This weapon descended to me, This bright blade in my hand Which I wield where I stand. This good sword of the Cavalry. Chorus : Cavalry! Cavalry! Cavalry! If you search North and South, East and West, On all roads from Beersheba to Dan, Not another you'll find. You will make up your mind. To compare with a Cavalry man. This blade has a nimbus of glory, Of duty, fame, honor, renown ; It has carved deep each historic story And fashioned the shape of each crown. From point unto hilt 'tis unsullied — 'Twas thus it descended to me — This bright blade in my hand Which I wield where I stand. This good sword of the Cavalry. 'Twill flourish untarnished forever In hands of such troopers as yqu, When drawn from its sheath may it never Be swung but in cause just and true. It hangs resting here at the pommel — This weapon descended to me — When we draw it once more May it swing as of yore. This good sword of the Cavalry. 42 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT THE MEN WHO WERE. There goes "Boots and Saddles" — a rush for the door, With carbines and sabers aclank on the floor; The kit's on the saddle, "Lead out" I and "Fall m"! They're ready to march, or the fight to begin. The Captain is Irish — a man you should know — The "First" is grey-headed, but tough as a bow; The "Second" a "shavey", just out of "The Point", He's stiff as a ramrod in manner and joint First Sergeant is Irish from Clare — Kilaloo — The rest of the Sergeants are Irishmen, too; McCarthy, Maloney, Mulcahey, O'Toole — The best kind of non-coms, 'tis said, as a rule. A Corp'ral from Boston and one from Mobile, A third is from Cleveland, a fourth from Kilkeel; The Smith is from Ireland — the town of Tralee — He fights for amusement when out on a spree. The Farrier hails from the shores of the Poe, The cook is a "Dago" from banks of Arno; The guidon's a "Russ", the bold "wind-jammers", two. Are sons of the land where the Danube runs blue. Let's pass down the line; I am sure we will find All races of white represented in kind; The English, the Irish, the "Johnny Crapauds", The Scotch and the Welsh, and the — God only knows - The Swede and the Dutchman, Italian and Jew, Hungarian, Austrian, Polander, too; The Prussian, the Russian, the Swiss and the Dane, A troop of outlanders we'll n'er see again. 'Neath each O. D. shirt there's the heart of a man, They never have "wilted" or paled 'neath their tan; They've tackled the red-man and tackled him fair, 'Though sometimes they've "lifted a lock of his hair". BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 43 Good bye! Dear old troop— I stand at the "present". To men whom the Lord in his wisdom had sent As types of the races who soon were to dwell. On the plains of the West, where you conquered or fell. COMO ESTA USTED? By La Punta near El Prado, when the band begins to play In the shadow of El Mora there beside Havana Bay ; When the harbor lights are shining set me down and let me be. For beside the breezy Malecon Chiquita waits for me. Como Esta Ustedf was all that I could say The first time that I met her there beside Havana Bay ; Mi duke corazon of dreamy days now gone Like waves dashed on La Punta, or the breezy Malecon. We were looking toward Cabanas and I held her little hand ; Though my Spanish was defective, yet she seemed to understand When I asked, with hesitation, Gusta mucha usted me? She let fall her dark eyelashes as she softly murmured, "Si." Oh, the sugar cane is waving in the balmy Cuban breeze, And the flamboyants are blazing red between the almond trees ; While the royal palms are calling in a language all their own ; Calling back to Carmencita, who is waiting there alone. I am back here in the outfit with its guard and drill, and grind. But my thoughts are down in Cuba with the girl I left behind ; And at night I keep adreaming from tattoo to reveille Of Chiquita Carmencita by the shady mango tree. By La Ptmta near El Prado and the breezy Malecon, J"here my heart's affection wanders to mi dulce corazon; And I'm thinking still with pleasure of the days that used to be, When we gazed around El Mora to the moonlight on the sea. 44 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT "ROUGH-RIDER". From the plains of Arizona, where my life was one sweet song, I "hit the trail" for Tampa on my way down to San Juan To fight the war. The Spanish war. I camped a while at "San Antone" and rode a broncho there, I rode that bronc from ears to tail, that's dead upon the square. Before the war. That Spanish war. For I'm a bold Rough-Rider in my heart. You note I look and speak, and act the part. I know my busy bis. I am the best that is. For I'm a bold Rough-Rider in my heart I jumped "plum" off a "choo-choo" train into the Tiunpa mud. While waiting there I fought the flies, it did me lots of good Before the war. The Spanish War. I went aboard a troopship, packed with others like sardines; They told me there I had transferred into the horse marines For that great war. That Spanish war. The "grub stake" wasn't ready yet, except some bales of hay, I waited there and wondered why, way down on Tampa bay Before the war. The Spanish war. Said Colonels Wood Eind Roosevelt to each other every night: "We're convicts on a prison ship; there's going to be no fight. Or any war. Not any war". The papers said the Spanish fleet was just outside the reef, Ahanging round to capture us and steal our "embalmed" beef Before the war. That Spanish war. I knew full well that paper deal was nothing but a bluff. Of "embalmed" beef or other grub I couldn't get enough For that 'great war. That coming war. I landed safe at Siboney, charged San Juan with a yell. The Spaniards "hit the breeze" you bet! There's nothing more to tell Of that great war. That splendid war. The regulars weren't in it, the militia didn't come, 'Twas Roosevelt's bold Rough-Riders put the "Dons" upon the "bum" In that great war. That Spanish war. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 45 I caught my breath at Montauk Point, dose to the singing sea. The bronco which I rode but once they took away from me But such is war. The luck of war. I'm back in Arizona now; I've made another start; Still I'm a bold Rough-Rider, a Rough-Rider in my heart. I won that war. That Spanish war. MOLLY O. One fine morning, just ofiE guard, I espied a little maiden, 'Twas the Summer time of year and the plants with bloom were laden. She came skipping down the lane with a little song to cheer her All unconscious of herself, not a soul in sight or near her. Molly O. MoUy O. "Faith," said I, "the weather's fine and the days are warm and sunny. All the wild birds sing in tune and the grasses smell like honey. But the snows will soon be here; won't you listen to my pleading? Sure I'm not content at all with the single life I'm leading." Molly O. MoUy O. Then she praised the flowers in bloom and the sunny, Summer season. Talked of everything but one without point, or rhyme, or reason; While her cheeks kept blushing bright like the bloom upon the clover, And I dreamt a dream of love as I thought the matter over. Molly O. Molly O. There is music in her voice sounds like love — now is this folly — But no matter what's in store I'll keep thinking of sweet Molly; Her soft eyes are gray or blue as the shadows flit above her, There's no reason to explain why I'm marking time and love her. Molly O. Molly O. Though the march be long and cold and my post be lone and dreary, I'll keep hiking with a song, for I'm thinking of my dearie; Let the sleet come pelting down in the stormy. Winter weather I will soon forget it all when we're both once more together. Molly O. Molly O 46 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT "RED" JIM. We'd sit by the fire of an evening, Discussing the camps overhead, The corps and divisions recruited For ages from trillions of dead; The quarters, supplies, transportation. Equipment, inspection and "blinds". The system of "busts" and promotions. The details of various kinds. "Red" thought that the gates built of jasper And streets paved with gold was "all stuif," A fairy tale foolish and childish To "spring on the kids"— just a "bluff" ; The harps and the wings, and the halos, The full flowing skirts and long hair Might work on a bad case of "T B", Suggesting good health over there. He couldn't believe that the story Of Satan and Adam and Eve, Was anything more than a fable Worked out with intent to deceive ; He wouldn't believe that The Master Had tortured his child on the tree, The tales he had read in the Bible Of God and his ways couldn't be. He'd smile when I talked about Hades, "A bum line of rot" to his mind. Concocted by "putty faced cowards" To terrify those of their kind ; The Devil and all his contraptions. The darkness and gnashing of teeth. Were bom of man's falsehood and scheming, Designed to "give crooks the cold feet". Religious "parades and formations" Had little to do with his creed. Their teachings and bald controversies Were nothing to him but a screed ; BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 47 Their "circulars", "S O's" and "G O's", Insulted the God of his love, The "C O" who issued his orders To billions below and above. He couldn't account for our detail On short tour of duty down here, "Perhaps 'twas a kind of a sentence Dished out for sorne error not clear" ; The manner of doing our duty Down here was by nature decreed ; The standards on earth were all human And based upon "fear, graft and greed". He'd say with a steadfast conviction "No man ever knew or could know One dot of God's organization, While serving his time here below ; And never had spy or truth-seeker Collected one line could be read From camps of that wonderful Army, Recruited from all of the dead". He'd pray just like this: "God all powerful, What creature am I to aspire, To secrets you choose to keep hidden. Yet plain to each lip-serving liar? I'm here to obey while I'm serving, I'm here, for you ordered it so, To do as thy spirit directs me, To serve where you please when I go." His service was "honest and faithful". His record was clean as his blade, His life just the life of a soldier. Respectful, upright, unafraid; His church was the space within vision. His Bible the scene then at hand. His thoughts were as pure as the waters That filter through fathoms of sand. 48 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT He fell by the hand of a red-man. Out West on a shimmering plain, I sat by his head in the star light. And watched while I soothed him in pain. Said he : "Here's relief. Good-bye, bunkie, "I'll soon know the things that God knows"; We buried him under a mesquite. Out there where the slow Nueces flows. BALANGIGA. The moon shines brightly o'er the hills Upon the island of Samar, The nodding palms stand sentinel. The waves break gently on the bar. Along the shore the night birds cry. The sighing winds call o'er the sea : "They died on Balangiga's strand. The men of the Ninth Infantry." They died on Balangiga's strand. Far, far from home and native land ; We cherish still their memory. The dead of the Ninth Infantry. They fell beneath the bolo strokes Dealt by a fearsome, mongrel race, Who feared to meet the steadfast gaze Of white men armed and face to face. They fell imarmed, but fighting still, Such men as these were do not flee — Thus died on Balangiga's strand The men of the Ninth Infantry. With hearts still sad we call the roll Of those brave comrades, now at rest, Who died as soldier men should die. For that dear flag we love the best. While records stand their names shall live. In silence rise — salute with me — The dead of Balangiga's strand, Those men of the Ninth Infantry. BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 49 CASEY'S DESERTION. Tim Casey, he went missing on the day he got his pay; A Sergeant made his "davey" that he lost or took away A knife, a fork, five saddles, too, a pillow case and sheet, A Sibley stove, a Sibley tent— tripod and chains complete. An order quickly followed and it said, at ten next day. Three officers should sit upon a board and make survey. And hunt around through Casey's friends to find out why he went. What had become of knife and fork, the stove and Sibley tent The senior member of the board thought Casey was a bum, Or mixed up with a female or his skin was fi^l of rum; The second member then remarked: "He swiped the bunch of stuff". The young recorder wrote this down and thought it was enough. They charged him on the pay roll with this Army wagon load Of things he'd packed upon his back and "shoved up" down the road; They Seiid the company he kept was high and fly, and fast. To hold the pace he "swiped" the stuff and "hit the trail" at last. A copy of proceedings said that Casey was a beat. He last was seen by someone with the Sibley at Retreat Upon the night of pay day; his own stuff was all cleaned out. He contemplated "skipping" that was plain beyond a doubt. Just six weeks after this event there crawled into the post A man who looked like Casey— some men thought 'twas Casey's ghost- Said he: "They slugged me good and hard while I was on that spree. They fixed me at a hospital. I'm back again you see." They tried him for desertion and for stealing public stores. When Casey heard the charges read he stammered, then he roars: "The Lord have mercy on me! I don't know what all this manes; I'll plade guilty to the Sibley, less tripod and the chains". Now when you go upon a toot just leave a little note To say you'r coming back again, or else upon my oath Thejr*ll charge you up with stuff enough both Ord' and Q. M. C. To pay for jags for half a year while you're on that one spree. 50 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT BLIZZARD CAMP. The dreaded blast from scowling North Comes sweeping o'er the plain, The biting sting of frozen snow Chills bridle hand and rein ; The piercing wind with piping shriek Rips straight across the trail ; Still, ten miles out we make our camp Inside a sheltered swale. The horses tied to ri^d Hne Turn tail to searching blast. On arch-ed spine and drooping head The fine sleet gathers fast ; With stiff braced legs and tucked up flanks. With streaming tails and manes. They stand like statues sculptured there, Or horse ghosts of the plains. The sentry wrapped in coat of hide Conceals his frosted face. And bravely walks his dreary post With halting, sliding pace ; The sifting scud through tight-laced flaps Of hardened canvas flies. To fall within on sparce fed stove Where, hissing hate, it dies. The night drags on, the sleet clings fast To wagon, tent and rope ; The cold dawn breaks o'er howling waste Without a gleam of hope ; The nipping diill of blizzard's breath Has seared cold's whitish brands On patient horse and nervous man, Ears, nose, and feet and hands. Long drags the day, long drags the night — No spark to cheer the heart — With frequent change of "running" guard Where each man does his part ; BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT 51 The tireless rush and fiendish scream Of blinding, stinging blast. Slows, hesitates, begins anew. Subsides — ^the blizzard's past. The weary horses, cold and numb, Call out in anxious way. Their hunger now made manifest By pleading, low-pitched neigh ; We've ten long miles of drifted snow On trail in front to count E'er post be reached — "Strike camp 1 Fall in 1 Prepare to mount 1 Troop mount !" AWAY! AWAY! There's a sound like troubled waters In a rocky mountain stream; 'Tis the German nation wailing As she wakes up from her dream. Over all is heard the echo Of the angered eagle's scream. As we press onward to Berlin. Chorus : Away! Away! Across the Gei-man Rhine. Away! Away! We're driving back their line. Strike, Columbia, for freedom — For the banner of her shrine — As we press onward to Berlin. Cursed by man and child, and women From Pacific to Verdun; Civilized and Christian nations Cry for vengeance on the Hun. Lord are we tiie chosen people To chastise? Thy will be done. As we press onward to Berlin. 52 BALLADS OF THE REGIMENT RATTLESNAKE BILL. The pack train of "shave tails" zig-zagged down the trail, With packers and cargador close at its tail; The bell mare— "Gray Molly"— fat, lazy and slick. Laid back her off ear and gave "Jug Head" a kick; The kitchen mule laden with camp tins and pot Loafed, nibbled and wandered then took up the trot; The language was awful from Hays down to Sill, The worst of the bunch was old Rattlesnake Bill. I'm sure that a Chaplain can't manage a mule With words from the Bible, the church or the school; Or get good results from a tone meek and faint. For bull-headed pack mules don't "savey" a saint; Just lam him a whack with the blinders or whip On flank, near the stifle, in front of the hip; Then abra-la-voca — rip out what you will — And curse "good and plenty", like Rattlesnake Bill. He'll jump to the trail with the spring of a goat And quickly respond to each artistic oath, This language he "savies" — ^you'll find it they say In pack regulations, index G to K; But should you admonish in tones blsmd and mild — The tone of the father instructing the child — Hell probably fall paralyzed adown the hill; This