Rookie Rhymes, By The Men Of The 1st And 2nd Provisional Training Regiments, Plattsburg, New York Part 6

Spring to arms, ye sons of freedom, Lift your country's ensign high; Join her undefeated Army, Succor France, her old ally.

Stand for freedom, truth and justice, Crush the Prussian tyrant's power; Emulate your worthy forebears In their Homeland's crucial hour.

Britain, mother of your nation; France, her hope in ages past; Belgium, home of peaceful people, Seared by foul oppression's blast; Russia, newly born to freedom; Seeking honor, G.o.d and right, Call on you to aid in crus.h.i.+ng, Prussianism's cursed blight.

Are ye men? Then meet the challenge As your fathers did of old; Help the cause of all the races, With your muscle, brain, and gold.

[Ill.u.s.tration: On the firing Line "A Miss At 5 O'clock"]

BEANS

Consider then the Army bean So various and quaint.

Sometimes we find they're just plain beans, And then again they ain't.

They're funny shades of yellow, Brown, green, and red, and white; While striped and spotted, polka dotted Beans our taste delight.

But nix on beans Manchurian, And beans of age Silurian, Which same could stand a buryin', When they come on--Good Night!

FORWARD "?"

On the parade, Soft and low, Rookie hiccoughed, "Forward, Ho!"

Another youngster Feeling smart, Tried to shout, "Forward, Hart!"

One requested, "Forward, How!"

From somewhere else, There came a "Yow!"

Perhaps a mile or so away We heard not "Harp!" nor "Harch!"

But stalwart Major Koehler's voice Thunder, "Forward, March!"

CHANT OF A DERELICT

Sad is my song, mates, for I've got the axe, I've got to go, I've got to go; Farewell to Plattsburg and life in the shacks, Home I must go, I must go.

Told not to let such a small matter grieve me, Sent to the parents who hate to receive me, Hearing my story, they'll never believe me, I've got to go, got to go.

No more to sleep in a two-story bunk, Back I must go, I must go; No more to sag 'neath a pack full of junk, Home I must go, I must go.

Leaving the books I could never have learned, Buying a straw hat--the old one was burned-- Even the wrist watch must now be interned, Back I must go, I must go.

Here is the moral of this plaintive cough, Sung as I go, moaned as I go; Here is the reason for my sounding off, Now as I go, as I go: Comrades in arms, oh! be prompt at formations, Neat in your dress, and observe regulations, Else, you, like me, will rejoin your relations, Home you must go, you must go.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MESS? YES!!]

PREOCCUPATION

The captain stops and yells to me, "Wake up there, rear rank number three!"

And then, perchance, he makes some mention Of how I do not pay attention.

But is it _my_ fault? No, it's you, With your persistent eyes of blue, That halt the flow of reason's stream And make me dream and dream and dream, Until the captain comes and--well, To put it plain--he gives me _h.e.l.l_.

INOCULATION DAY

My blood the surgeons fortify With antiseptic serum; The dread bacilli I defy, What cause have I to fear 'em?

We form outside the pest-house door At one o'clock precisely, But if we get our dose at four We think we're doing nicely.

And in our arm the surgeon stabs A hypodermic squirter, E'en as the hungry hobo jabs His fork in a frankfurter.

I'm full of dope for smallpox germs, For typhus and such evils, For broken heart and army worms, For chestnut blight and weevils.

I'm doped against the bayonet Wielded by German demons; But no one seems to think I'll get Dear old delirium tremens.

DON'T WEAKEN

When you feel on the b.u.m 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.s 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."