Rhymes of the Rookies Part 1

Rhymes of the Rookies.

by W. E. Christian.

MY BUNKIE

He's mostly gnarls and freckles and tan, He'd surely come under society's ban, He's a swearin', fightin' cavalryman, But--he's my bunkie.

He's weathered the winds of the Western waste.

(You, gentle Christian, would call him debased) And he's loved at his ease and married in haste, Has my bunkie.

In a Philippine paddy he's slept in the rain, When he's drunk rotten booze that drives you insane, And he's often court-martialed--yes, over again, Is my bunkie.

He's been on the booze the whole blooming night, To mount guard next morning most awfully tight, Though he's "dressed" like a soldier when given "Guide Right,"

He's my bunkie.

He doesn't know Browning or Ibsen or Keats, But he knows mighty well when the other man cheats And he licks him and makes him the laugh of the streets, Does my bunkie.

He stands by and cheers when I'm having fun, And when it is over says, "Pretty well done,"

But he takes a large hand if they rush two to one, For--he's my bunkie.

When Taps has blown and all the troop is asleep, We nudge each other and gingerly creep, To where the shadows hang heavy and deep, I and my bunkie.

And then when the fire-flies flittering roam, We sit close together out there in the gloam, And talk about things appertaining to home, I and my bunkie.

If the slow tropic fever is a-shaking my spine, And they blow "boots and saddles" to chase the brown swine, He'll give me a leg-up and ride me in line, Will my bunkie.

And if I get hit--his arm goes around, And raises me tenderly off of the ground, And the words on his lips are a comforting sound, The words of my bunkie.

OUR OFFICERS

I'm goin' to be discharged, sir; My time is near its close, I want to tell you, cap'en, You're the best the country grows.

They ain't no man in all the world Can beat the army man, That wears the s.h.i.+ny leggins and That does the best he can.

I've seen them, sir, in battle With the bullets flyin' round, I've seen them lying wounded With the blood-stains on the ground.

I've watched them when the fever Was a-ragin' in the camp, I've seen them nurse the cholera-- A-wrestling with the cramp.

I've seen them pin to that ol' flag Another glory more, That made the stripes look brighter Than they ever did before.

They weren't winning V.C.'s, either, But because the country said For them to go, they went.

They done it or they're dead.

We've lots of men of this kind an'

Of course, we've some that ain't, We'll cover up their faces In the picture that we paint.

I'll follow men like you, sir; You can't go too fast an' far, You're officers and gentlemen Like Congress says you are.

I wish I could re-up, sir, Till you get your silver stars, I'm sure you'll do them credit, sir, As you have done the bars.

I know I shouldn't talk so much, But somehow I'm inclined, On leavin' the old outfit Just to speak the company's mind.

PAY DAY

Oh, it's early in the morning, The mules begin to squeal, You hear the cooks a'bangin' pans To get the mornin' meal; The Bugler, sort o' toodlin, Outside the Colonel's tent, And you kind o' feel downhearted, 'Cause your last two bits is spent.

With a leggin-string you're fussin'

When the band begins to play, And you listen, and stop cussin',-- What is that the bugles say?

Oh, it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day, And the drums begin to roll, And they sure do carry music To the busted Johnnie's soul.

Some think about the girls they'll get, And some, about the beer; Some say they'll send their money home, And all begin to cheer.

The games will soon be goin'

Snap your fingers at the dice; With the canteen spigots flowin'

'Til the Barkeep's out of ice.

For it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day; Can't you hear the bugles call?

The privates and the Non-Coms, The officers and all Have been waitin', waitin', waiting 'Til they're broke or badly bent For the coins stacked up on blankets And table in a tent.

Fifteen dollars in the mornin'

By the evenin' in the hole; And "Private Jones is absent, Sir."

When the Sergeant calls the roll.

The officers are lookin' up The "Articles of War"; There's sixteen in the guard-house, And the Provost has some more.

THE ARMY GROUCH

When the Grouch gets up at reveille, He puts his elbow on his knee; His head upon his hand; And tho' he's slept ten hours or more, His back is weak, his feet are sore, And he can hardly stand.

And, as he goes to get his chow, He says, "By Gos.h.!.+--I don't see how A soldier lives so long.

The spuds is rotten and the slum Is always worse than on the b.u.m.

The coffee is too strong.

That cow was killed ten years before They organized this bloomin' war; These flapjacks taste like wood."

And so he growls through all the day, And fills his comrades with dismay; They'd kill him if they could.

When "First Call" wakes up Billy Lott, He sits upon his Army cot, And whistles "Casey Jones,"

And as he jumps into his shoes, He says, "By Jinks I've had a snooze That's good for skin and bones."

And Billy always has a smile That you can see for half a mile, And when he stops to say, 'How Do!'

He chases dimples to your cheeks That stay there for a couple of weeks, And he makes you happy too.

WEANING TIME

(To A. W. D.)

Mothers, O, ye mothers of the land!

With broods of sisters, brothers--hand in hand-- 'Tis weaning time. Clip ye the thread That ap.r.o.n-strings the lad! Give him his head!

Pluck from your teat the clinging lip That should be tight with valor's grip!

"You were my child-in-arms," she said; "Suckled I you, and gave you bed; But now you are my man, my son.

For battle lost or battle won, Go, find your captain; take your gun, To stand with France against the Hun!