To the town they call Marahui;
When the road is built and the Moros killed,
We’ll none of us be sorry.
We’re blasting stumps and grading bumps;
Our arms and backs are sore, O!
We work all day just a dreamin’ of our pay,
And d——n the husky Moro!
When taps sounded, we turned in beneath two blankets in a wall-tent lighted by a feeble lantern. All night long the restless jungle sounds, the whispering of the mysterious forest, and the distant booming of the sea, together with the measured tread of the night sentry, made a lullaby which ought to have worked wonders with the “jim-jam” and the fever patients of the Twenty-eighth.