Rhymes of the Rookies | Page 2

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
the canteen spigots flowin'
'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