Rhymes of the Rookies | Page 7

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 green,

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.