When your first hitch is over, and you have cashed your finals few, And a breakfast and a boat ride are all that's left for you, And you toy with your collar as you don your suit of "citz,"

While your bunkie, sitting near you, has the bluest kind of fits; You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the thoughts of going out; The friends at home will welcome you, of that there's not a doubt; And it never seems to strike you that you have made a beaten track, In these years you've been a soldier--that you might come back.

So you hasten out as boat call goes--last call you have to stand-- And you wave farewell to comrades as you push away from land.

First call for drill is sounding from the bugler's throat of gold, But you are free--"don't have to stand no drill in heat or cold."

Altho' you get to wondering as things fade from sight, If drilling really was so bad as walking post at night.

You think, of course, when first discharged, one feels just sort of sad; But it's Army fever symptoms--And you've got 'em bad.

You're in business on the outside, and you're making good, it seems; But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling through your dreams.

Then some day you meet a soldier on a furlough for a week; And you think it only friendly to go up to him and speak; And you find you knew his brother, or his cousin, or his friend, And your job upon the outside has found a sudden end; For a longing fierce comes over you, and you cannot resist-- It's the crisis of the fever--and you reenlist.

ONE TO THE ARMY BEAN

I've eaten funny dishes on Luzon's tropical sh.o.r.e, I've eaten j.a.pan's bamboo shoots and oysters by the score.

Of caviar I've had my share, I love anchovies, too, And way down in old Mindanao I've eaten carabao; Of Johnny Bull's old rare roast I nearly got the gout, And with chums at Heidelberg I dined on sauerkraut; In China I have eaten native rice and sipped their famous teas; In Naples I, 'long with the rest, ate macaroni and cheese; In Cuba where all things go slow, manana's their one wish; I dined on things that had no names, but tasted strong with fish.

In Mexico the chili burnt the coating off my tongue; And with Irish landlord I dined on pigs quite young, Yet you may have your dishes that is served to kings and queens, But I am happy and contented with a dish of Army Beans.

LITTLE THINGS

Little drops of water, Little grains of sand Make the mighty ocean And the desert land.

Little hours of drilling, Little "rifle shoots"

Make efficient soldiers Out of raw recruits.

Little hours some spend in Breaking liberty, Oft' amount to something More than E. P. D.

Little words of kindness, When you spare a few, Sound all right to some one; Do they not to you?

SING-A-SONG-A-SIXPENCE

Sing-a-song-a-sixpence Every-body dry-- Half-a-dozen Privates Opening some rye.

When the rye was opened The Bucks began to sing: Every blessed one of them Feeling like a king.

The Sergeant at the Guard-house Saw them walking straight-- Marked them "Clean and Sober,"

When they pa.s.sed the gate.

But, when Taps was over, They sang and danced a jig, Along came a Corporal And slammed them in the Brig.

QUEEN OF MAY

If you wake, why, call me early--call me early, won't you, bunk?

The captain says I'll be a non-com., if I don't get on a drunk.

Then some day I'll be a sergeant with three stripes upon my arm, Zig zag, like the old rail fences on Dad Posey's Country farm.

Call me early, though I'm dreaming, wake me up that I may see How the sun that sinks in grandeur rises in obscurity.

I've been a private, bunkie, such as privates seldom are, Borne my share of public censure, let it heal without a scar.

Till upon the fair escutcheon of my name and humble rank Captain says he'll add the t.i.tle and a stripe on either flank.

Then I'll be a non-com., bunkie, wake me up that I may see My own glory bubble appearing, hear it burst at reveille.

Wake me early from my slumbers, henceforth I would early rise, Health and wealth are common virtues--dawn will brand me both, and wise.

Bunkie, I'll be boss tomorrow, uniformed in blue and white, Knew I'd get it, if the captain only did what's square and right.

But I will not chastise the comrades who may doubt my word is law, I'll be easy with them, bunkie, patient, 'tho they feel no awe.

Bunkie, I'm growing sleepy; wake me when the morning breaks; For upon the track of merit, I will land the non-com. stakes.

Let me hear the joyful clamor when I wake from pleasant dreams That the fellows rise when greeting a noncom., who is what he seems.

Wake me early, bunkie, comrade, tell the fellows who I am, Not forgetting all the favors I will do you when I can.

Tell them that I wouldn't have it, if it sacrificed their love, Tell them that I'm the same as ever, though they think me far above.

Bunkie, I have dreamed so often of the buff that I shall wear, That I feel the honor greater than a man like me can bear.

Long I've waited; long I've cherished thoughts of how I'd look and feel When the captain said: Howard, here's a stripe to aid your zeal.

Then I'd be a non-com., bunkies, then I'd write to dad and say, Modest-like: "A Corporal's greetings to his folks so far away!"

A YOUNG ROOKIE'S LAMENT

As I sit in the gleam of the camp fire, 'Neath the Oriental skies, In fancy I picture the homeland sh.o.r.e And a town I highly prize; It's Gardner, dear old Gardner, A town so dear to me, But I'm many miles away Across an endless sea.

I at the age of 17 was-- Fickle as a clam I took a train for Fitchburg And joined old Uncle Sam.

They sent me on to Sloc.u.m, And filled me up on beans.

They made me take a rifle And a pair of khaki jeans.

They sent me to the Philippines, We call it no man's land.

We never see a flake of snow, We bake our eggs in sand, We hike o'er burning mountains 'Til it drives us near insane, We pitch our camp in a rice field In a storm of drizzling rain.

At night we walk our outpost With a great big heavy gun And 90 Dum-Dum bullets To make the Moros run.

They're accurate as a weasel And, boys, they never fan, You have to keep your ears p.r.i.c.ked up, For they'll get you if they can.

Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow, But that notion you'll destroy If you ever hold your hand up To be a soldier boy.

You have no dear old Mother.

To mend your tattered pants, When you stick yourself with a needle, With rage you'll fairly prance.

So, boys, I found my big mistake, I was altogether wrong, And that's the simple reason I sing this little song.

So take a piece of fool's advice, And never run away, Just stay in dear old Gardner Where life is bright and gay.

DANNY DEEVER BALLAD

"Where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "What are they all a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "I dunno where they're goin' to," said Files-on-Parade, "I dunno what they're goin' to do," the Color Sergeant said.

For they're goin' back towards U. S. A. and leave the Philippines, They're tirin' of the Islands and the Army "pork and beans,"

That "single time," and "two per mile"--they all know what that means-- So now they're all a'goin' to leave the Army.

"Where is the 'Doughboy' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "Back to his farm! Back to his farm!" said Files-on-Parade, "Behind the plow! Behind the plow," the Color Sergeant said.

No hiking o'er rice paddies,--but furrowed fields of corn, To go to bed real early and get up in the morn', To be his own "K. O." once more, in the country where he's born, So soon he'll be a-quittin' of the Army.