Aye, lads, and when we shot
It's just as like as not
We hit some mother's heart in old Granady.
She didn't sink no Maine,
'Way over there in Spain,
But she won't never see her laddy's body.
I kin see a black-eyed gal,
Somethin' like my little Sal,
What is cryin' out her eyes in old Sevilly;
There's a widow in Madrid
With a pore little kid,
And his daddy has went down off Manilly.
Aye, lads, aye, we fought 'em,
And we sent 'em to the bottom,
And I hopes you won't be thinkin' I'm a booby,
But that little black-eyed gal,
What reminds me so of Sal,
She didn't never do no harm to Cuby.
And if instead of Sanchy,
It had been "the hated Yankee,"
Which you know, my lads, is me and Jack, and Billy,
You know who would be cryin'
For us fellers, what was dyin'
And a-soakin' in the water off Manilly.
Edmund Vance Cooke.
MANILA BAY
From keel to fighting top, I love
Our Asiatic fleet,
I love our officers and crews
Who'd rather fight than eat.
I love the breakfast ordered up
When enemies ran short,
But most I love our chaplain
With his head out of the port.
Now, a naval chaplain cannot charge
As chaplains can on land,
With his Bible in his pocket,
His revolver in his hand,
He must wait and help the wounded,
No danger must he court;
So our chaplain helped the wounded
With his head out of the port.
Beneath his red and yellow,
At bay the Spaniard stood
Till the yellow rose in fire
And the crimson sank in blood.
And till the last fouled rifle
Sped its impotent retort,
Our chaplain watched the Spaniard
With his head out of the port.
Then here's our admiral on the bridge
Above the bursting shell;
And here's our sailors who went in
For victory or hell,
And here's the ships and here's the guns,
That silenced fleet and fort;
But don't forget our chaplain
With his head out of the port.