We've soldiered together, brave hearts ever true,
We've marched, we have fought and we've bled
For the dear old flag with its red, white and blue
That floats in the breeze overhead.
We've joked and we've laughed around the camp fire's red glare
From Cuba to distant Luzon,
As we told the old stories that drive away care
'Neath the folds of the red guidon.
Come, toss off your tankards, we'll drink long and deep,
Brave hearts ever gallant and true,
To friends who now rest in their long peaceful sleep,
Who once wore the red and blue.
We'll prove true in the future as they in the past,
Old comrades of gun and caisson;
We'll fight like true soldiers from first to the last
As we follow the red guidon.
Chorus:
Then here's to the crossed cannons, they never will run,
Here's the limber and rolling caisson,
The clank of the collar and rumble of gun
And Hurrah for the Red Guidon!
THE CONSCRIPT
"Life is real; life is earnest"—but a Gamble after all,
"Ten million Conscripts" are answering the Call;
Ten million men of which I am One—
What were the "odds" when "the wheel was spun"?
What were the "odds" that Fate would select
Me for a Conscript—another reject?
Fate was the Gambler; I was a "chip,"
Death was the "stake" held in Life's grip;
I am a Conscript played in Fate's hand,
When the Game's over—how will I stand?
Death, will it lose, or Life, will it win,
Who'll be the "winner" at the great "Cash-in"?
Ten million Conscripts to answer the Call,
And at the gusts, the leaves must fall:
With submarines launching torpedoes below,
Which troop ship to atoms are they to blow?
Ghosts of disease lurking in camp,
Spectral sickness in trenches so damp;
Ten million bullets ripping the air,
Which Conscript to be stricken, and when and where?
Ten million shrapnel shrieking o'er head,
Which Conscript to reckon among their dead?
Thousands of wounds, a-gaping and wide,
Who will recover, and who will have died?
Millions of mothers so anxious at home,
Who will wear crepe for loved ones, alone?
Millions of sweethearts who'll weep o'er the "lists,"
Which lovers the lips ne'er more to be kissed?
All is a Gamble—this War-Game of Chance—
The life of a Conscript over in France.
The "Roulette of Life" is spinning so fast,
The "red ball of Death" must drop in at last;
Which numbers will win, which numbers will lose,
The "odds" or the "evens," the "reds" or the "blues"?
Yet Hope is the "Banker" and He will repay
The chances that Conscripts must take in the fray;
And Fate's a Good sport, when "dealing the cards,"
He'll give "Fifty-fifty" to Conscript for odds.
THE SLACKER
Why don't he volunteer to serve
In Uncle Sammy's grand reserve?
He knows quite well his country's call;
Has no regard for this, at all.
He never thinks to do his part,
Because he has a Slacker's heart.
He walks along the street quite spry—
To feign indifference he must try,
When suddenly he takes affright,
It's just a picture (what a sight)
Of Uncle Sam with pointing finger.
Take it from me! He doesn't linger.
"Why don't you do it? do it quick!"
The Slacker's skull is very thick.
It never penetrates the gray,
What Uncle Sammy, has to say.
"I want you NOW!" Oh, what a Mutt.
The words fall on a brainless nut.