When you feel on the bum and the outlook is glum,
And you're wonderin' what's comin' next;
When most every thing's drear and life loses its cheer,
And the Skip and Reverses are vexed;
If this Plattsburgish heat knocks you clean off your feet,
Or your bunkies they ain't even speakin';
Keep your shirt on your back, don't knock over the stack,
It's a great life, if you don't weaken.
When they launder your sock till it ain't fit to hock,
When they shrink up your shirt like a rag;
If you blister your toes and then sunburn your nose
And then can't even go on a jag;
Why, you're sure out of luck, but just pass the old buck,
Keep a stiff upper lip like a deacon;
Though you shoot ten straight blanks do not kick with the cranks,
Summon a grin and don't weaken.
If you're late for retreat and must police the street,
If at reveille you're still in your bed;
If your girl sends you flags which some other cuss bags,
Or they clip all the hair off your head;
If the mess comes out burned,
So your stomach gets turned,
Or the "upper man" keeps you from sleepin';
Don't you growl, that won't help,
For they'll dub you a whelp;
Can the grouch—but don't weaken.
THE THREE
Three dead men rose on nimble toes
Above the frozen clay;
And as they sped, each of the Dead
Told how he died that day.
Said one, "I sent the Regiment
To safety as I fell."
The Second cried, "Before I died
I hurled the foe to Hell."
As for the Third, he spoke no word
But hastened on his way,
Until at last a whisper passed:
"How did you die today?"
"There was a maid slept unafraid
Within a hut," he said.
"I searched the place and for a space
I thought that all had fled.
"But her breast glowed white in the morning light
As the early dawn grew red;
Tiptoe I came in lust and shame
And stood beside her bed.
"And there I fought an evil thought
And won—and turned to go;
Then as I went into my tent
A bullet struck me low."
The others heard and spoke no word
(For dead men understand),
But 'round they turned and their deep eyes burned
As they gripped his leaden hand.
TO THE LITTLE BLACK DOG
We see you in the morning
When Reveille implores;
We meet you in the evening
At end of daily chores.
On march, fatigue, or drilling
Our friend we find you still,
With kindly, pleasant bearing
And independent will.
You're small, you're thin, you're homely,
You're battered, scratched, and lame;
But in our tasks before us
Pray God we be as game!