Rookie Rhymes, By The Men Of The 1st And 2nd Provisional Training Regiments, Plattsburg, New York Part 5

When first I landed in this camp I used to write most every day To all my friends I left behind, And ask them what they had to say About the old town and the girls, Or what they thought about the war; And in return the daily mail It brought me letters by the score.

But now my friends write me and ask What keeps me from replying, And when I answer, "It's the work,"

Why, they just think I'm lying.

So now the letters I receive Are few and very far between; They're mostly from my family And never any from a queen.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ARMA FEMINAMQUE

No man would doubt a woman's nerve, We know you're brave enough; You put a man to shame at times, You're tender--and you're tough.

And yet I feel, with all your grit And talk of cave-men stuff, That you're sorter out of place When I'm twistin' up my face, A-thrustin' and a-jabbin' with my gun-knife.

There's some things in this queer old world That's awkward things to see, They can't be tied with ribbon And they can't be served with tea.

They're not the least bit sociable And women--as for me, I wish you'd stay away, While I'm training for the day That I'm goin' to get in action with a gun-knife.

This ain't no country club affair Of smiles and clever skill; There ain't no silver cups around When doughboys train to kill.

It's you or me--and do it quick, A simple murder drill.

So I want no women 'round, When I'm tearin' up the ground, A shadow-pointin' Boches with my gun-knife.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

OUT O' LUCK

If, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come, If the sergeant antedates the call, or Friday's fish is b.u.m, Or the waiter empties soup on you--don't let 'em see you glum.

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

If you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome, Or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the Somme, The chances are you've guessed it wrong and "may as well go home."

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

If you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place, Or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face, Or try to stop a ten-inch sh.e.l.l and leave an empty s.p.a.ce.

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

[Ill.u.s.tration: S.O.S.]

SHERMAN WAS RIGHT

You may talk about your marching And your stiff, close-order drill; You may cuss out recitations, And of skirmish have your fill; The difficult manoeuvers Which you do most every day May get your goat like everything, And spoil your Plattsburg stay.

But for me it's far, far harder Makes me feel more like a prune, To march at strict attention Past the Hostess House at noon.

TROOPs.h.i.+P CHANTY

The sea is green as green-pea soup And half-way down the green-o, A U-boat's lying snug and tight All bellied out with dynamite, And twenty guns between-o!

And twenty guns between-o!

So sc.r.a.pe yer hatchways clear of brine, And bawl yer jolly song-o.

For if she "blows," my lads, why, then We'll blow her back to h.e.l.l again, With compliments along-o!

With compliments along-o!

THOSE RUMORS

He sauntered in With a knowing grin, The news he'd been to hear; We knew right well He'd come to tell The latest from the rear.

"A hundred went," he said, "to-day, "Five hundred more must go they say; "Looks bad, Bill, guess you're on your way; "Darn few of us can hope to stay.

"I got this straight from a friend of mine, "A friend of his in Company 9, "Heard from a friend in Company 10, "That Company 5 lost fifty men."

With this you'd think Our hopes would sink, It ought to change our humor.

We knew the source, So smiled of course, It was an L. T. rumor.

WAR'S HORRORS

I hate to talk of a Regular Without the proper respect; But given a chance to criticize, There's a bunch that I'd select.

And they are those musical miscreants, Those malefactors of noise, Those rookie Second Cavalrymen, The amateur bugle boys.

They blow retreat, And from head to feet Coagulate your spine; Or at company drill They send a chill A-s.h.i.+vering down the line.

Just try to salute To their twittering toot, Their yodeling, rasping groan, Their blithering bleat, And you'll swear that they beat The Hindu quarter-tone, By Gad!

The Hindu quarter-tone.

THE CALL