RUBAIYAT OF A PLATTSBURG CANDIDATE
Awake! 'tis morning, though it should not be—
Come, can the yawns, it's speed they want to see—
And stagger forth upon a hostile world,
In flannel shirt and cotton pants O. D.
Before the phantoms of the night were done,
Methought I idled somewhere in the sun,
Debating whether beauty to pursue,
Or touch a bell, and cultivate a bun.
And lovely maids in garments pale did seem
To shimmer round me in continuous stream,
Each with a glass of something in her hand,
And then I turned—and lo! it was a dream!
And ere the cock crew he that stood before
The barracks, shouted "Half a minute more!
Belts, bayonets, and pieces—on the jump—
And signal-flags and alidades," O Lor'!
I sometimes think that never battles din
Were so unwelcome as the words "Fall in!"
Nor any victory could taste so sweet
As French vermouth with ice and Gordon gin.
Yesterday's problem 'twixt the Red and Blue
Involved our journey down the Road Peru;
The day before we took the Peru Road—
I'll bet a hat we're there to-morrow, too.
Myself when fresh and full of zeal and spunk,
Hung on the words whence wisdom should be drunk;
But this was all the harvest that I reaped—
To say "as fast as possible" is punk.
Platoon commanders, captains by the score,
Each takes his turn—and then is seen no more;
But no one ever thinks of him again
One half so kindly as they thought before.
To-day's commander, with commands profuse,
To-morrow to the rear rank will reduce.
Think, and you know not what he meant to say—
He knows not neither, so—ah, what's the use?
Waste not your hour to criticize or blame,
You would have done it worse, or just the same.
Better to pack your troubles with your kit,
To keep your shirt on, and to play the game.
Some for the shriek of shot and shell, and some
Sigh for the bottle of New England rum.
Oh, face the facts, and let the fiction go—
I'll bet "la vie des tranchèes" will be bum.
One moment's rest, then back into the mill
With butt and point to lacerate and kill.
I often wonder what the Germans teach
One half so cultured as our "Bay'net Drill."
For war is hell, and Plattsburg not a jest,
And yet, by gravy, we will do our best,
Till submarine and Kaiser are forgot,
Or Angel Gabriel hollers out, "At rest!"