And the rookies sweated morning, noon and night;
'Till the lookout sighted land, and they cheered each grain o' sand,—
For their blood was boilin' over for a fight.
The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she tied up at the dock,
An' each rookie lugged his gun an' kit ashore,
An' a train it come and took 'em where the tropic sun could cook 'em,—
An' the sergeants they could talk to them of war.
The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she had her bottom scraped,
For the first part of her labor it was done,
An' the rookies chased the Tagals and the Tagals they escaped,—