(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "The tents of trouble"

Google 



This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 



ogle 



I 



^^c^\ 



^^sc\w\ 



T,Google 



ogle 



ogle 



THE TENTS OF TROUBLE 



o,.,:.„Go 



T,Google 



THE 

TENTS OF TROUBLE 
- ^ ^ 

BY 

DAMON RUNYOJt 

{Balladi aflht Wandtrbund, and Othir Vtrii) 



NEW YORK 

Desmond FitzGerald, Inc. 
publishers / 



D,g,i,7?d-,Google 




Copyright, 1911 
Br Desmond FitzGerald, Inc. 



All Bights Rts»rved 



D,o,i,7.<iT,Google 



^ 



To 
Hamisk Loughlin McLaurin, 
and other world wanderers. 



,.,.„Go 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



The author is indebted for the reproduction of verse 
included in this volume to Harper's Weekly, Harper's 
Monthly, the Century Magazine, Success, Collier's, 
Appleton's, Lippincott's, Smart Set, the Bohemian, Ameri- 
can Magazine, Munsey's, LesMe's Monthly, New York 
Telegraph, New York Sun, New York American, Army 
and Navy Journal, Spare Moments, the People's Maga- 
zine, Denver News, Denver Post, and the New York World. 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



CONTENTS 

PACB 

Ball AM op the Wanderbund 

BBllad of the Big Town 

Ghoita of the Great White Way : . 

The Spirit of You 

"Pal" — Algeria, 1910 

Song of the Strike-Breakeri 

Ballad of Lonely Gravet 

Brothers-By-Oatb jo 

The Army of God-Knows-Where a 

The "Has-Been" 36 

Song of King Barleycorn 41 

Song of the Steel Worker 43 

For the Cry of a Litlle Child 44 

Ballads of a Beach Combek 

Who Goes This Way? 47 

Rosea of a Dream 4S 

The Gods of Yesterday s" 

The Song of Silence SJ 

Dream of a Drowsy Day SS 

The Consoler 58 

The Isle o' Sweet Content 60 

When the Ships Go Home 6» 

The King of Moo £3 

"(ao«s*' 65 

The Prince Consort 66 

Songs of the Sebvice 

" Takiog On " 69 



CONTENTS 

PACK 

Song of the Bullet 71 

OutpoM, 4. a. m. 74 

Ladies id the Trenches 76 

Bugle Call* 79 

The Cavalry 8a 

The Filipino Scout 84 

"Hikin"' 86 

Ballad of the Test Ride 88 

Wage of the Fighting Men 90 

Song of the Saddle 91 

The Sky Marines 94. 

The Glory of War 96 

Practice Marching 99 

" August 12, '98 " loi 

To Those Who Stay 104 

Ballads of the Brake Beams 

A Song of the Rails 107 

The Softest Town no 

On Distant Shores 

The Voice From Home iij 

"Stars and Stripes Forevtr" 118 

Toots McGann lao 

The Yellow Flag 133 

Ghosts of the Ditch 137 

Horaenard Bound iji 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



BALLADS OF THE WANDERBUND 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE BALLAD OF THE BIG TOWN 

NOW I've gone out as a wanderer; as a man o' ih' 
Where-You-Wills; 
An' I've planted our flag in vale, on crag, an' over a 

thousand hills. 
My blood flows hot as lava, an' it leaps to th' Spring- 
time's call; 
(For I must go in th' Springtime, an' I'm due back in 

th' Fall.) 
But I'm sick o' th' wastes o' water; an' I'm sick o' th' 

swccpin' plain; 
I'm tired o' th' snow an' th' windy blow an' th' peck 

o' th' fretful rain. 
Oh, I'm sick o' th' whole dam Open, an' th' Forest 
gives me a chill — 
I'm yeamin' to-night for ole New York; 
Whang o' th' music an' pop o' th' cork; 
(Sick o' 3 ration o' maggoty pork — ) 
An' sore on th' blasted drill I 

Now I've camped in the World's far plazas, an' I've 

fought at th' ends o' th' Earth; 
I've fought an' won from sun to sun an' learned what 

a friendship's worth. 
I've gasped in the heat o' th' Congo, an' froze on' th' 

bergs o' Svorfc — 

13 



n„„...Go 



THE BALLAD OF THE BIG TOWN 

An' my constant dream is th' diamond gleam o' th' 

lights that hght New York. 
For I ache with th' mountain scenery, an' I've stared 

at th' wide-eyed sky 
'Til I'm blue o' hide an' blue inside an' feelin' I'd like 

to cry. 
Oh, I've carried th' Go^jel an' rifle an' I've traveled in 
trails w'ich aint — 
An' I'm yeamin' to-night for th' Broadway mess; 
Sight o' th' bloods in cvenin' dress — 
Clink o' th' glass — an' a drink — I guess — 
An' th' stink o' perfume an' paint 1 

I've been in a Sultan's harem; I sabered me way to 

his pearls, 
But I wouldn't trade th' best they've made for th' least 

o' our chorus girls. 
I've hopped to a tom-tom's clatter, an' I've shied at the 

hula prance, 
But th' pulse dcHi't beat in me willin' feet as she does to 

a Bowery dance. 
For I've slept with a plague o' cholera — an' worse, with 

a Borny chief; 
From th' Arctic Zone to th' Patagonc I've toted a 

clammy grief, 
I've found where th' Four Winds council, an' I've 

chinned now an' then with Death — 
But I'm wishin' to-night to laugh an' sing; 



■.Gotit^le 



THE BALLAD OF THE BIG TOWN 

for th' city's roar an' th' music's ring — 
(Rustle o' skirts an' an ole time fling — ) 
An' a chance for an' easy breath. 
I've lighted my fires at evenin' 'neath stars you never 

have seen — 
I've tarried whiles on vacant isles, an' th' waves that 

whip between. 
But whether I sweat on th' Congo, or freeze on th' 

bergs o' Svork — 
I dream at night, o' th* arch o' Ugjit that swings over 

Home — New York ! 
For I've hung my warsh in a Temple, an' I've eaten 

a Sacred Cow — 
Oh, I own nine lives an' fourteen wives (but none o' 
them's with me now — 
Thank Gawd!) 
An' there's thousands o' miles between me an' th' shores 
o' th' only town ; 
An' I'm dreamin' to-night by th' camp fire dim; 
(Sick o' th' Trail an' th' Weather's whim;) 
An' I'd take a chance at a distance swim 
If I knew dam well I'd drown ! 



D,g,l,7?<lT,GOOglC 



THE GHOSTS OF THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

HAVE you heard o' the Ghosts o' Broadway, the 
jinks o' the Dream Defile? 
The Red-Eyed Ghost, an' the White-Lipped Ghost, an' 

the Ghost wit' the good, glad anile? 
When the Ice in the wine-can churns a tune, an' the 

glasses skate on the trays 
Them Ghosts cmne out o' their hives an' set an' yarn 

in the gilt cafays. 
When the lights paint faces o' daylight-gloom to a nig^t- 

time-natured glow 
They'll tell you tales w'ich are old as sin — that's the 

oldest gag we know. 

FIRST GHOST 

" I'm the Ghost o' the Wine that fiowt each night in a 
mellow stream to Hell;" 

SECOND GHOST 

"I'm the Ghost o' the Woman who knows some things 
she never wUl dare to tell — " 

THIRD GHOST 

"Well, well! — 
I'm the Ghost •' the Song that rafts you along wit' a 
lillin', tiltitt' lay — " 

i6 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GHOSTS OF THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

ALL THREE 

" Ho, we're the Ghosts o' the Game an' Ghosts you must 
tame when you play on the Big White Way! " 

Sure I You've met wit' the Ghosts o' Broadway; the 

ha'nts o' the Path o' the Wise; 
Wit' the lint o' the pillow still stuct in their hair, an' a 

bath-room look in their eyes. 
When the lights are splashin' the taxi-trails an' the skirts 

raise a perfumed breeze 
They get in the snares wit' the whirlin' doors an' yam 

at their graveyard ease. 
An' the low-neck squadrons pass in review an' hear the 

tales for awhile 
O' the Wine, an' the Woman, an' bright-faced Song, 

that drools wit' a good, glad smile. 

FIRST GHOST 

" I'm the, Ghost o' the Wine that brings the aches in the 
dawn o' the day to come;" 

SECOND GHOST 

"I'm the Ghost o' the Woman who soothes the brow 
when it throbs like a beatin' drum;" 

THIRD GHOST 

"I'm the Ghost o' the Song that drowns the wrong an' 
makes the heart tunk gay — " 
17 



THE GHOSTS OF THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

AXL THREE 

" Ho, we'll drini an' sing to the joyful rittg a' the bells 
on the Big White Way! " 

So here's to the Ghosts o' Broadway; where the old bull 

iiddle snorts — 
The White-Lipped Ghost wit' her bad, sad smile, an' 

both o' her fellow sports ; 
When the music two-steps the hand to the purse an' the 

carbonized grape-juice flies 
Let's 'drink to the health o' the Broadway Ghosts, an' 

the tomb where their history lies. 
Oh, the world is troubled enough by woe, an' there's 

light on the Dream Defile — 
So here's to the Red-Eyed, White-Lipped Ghosts — an' 

the one wit' the good, glad smile. 

. FIRST GHOST 

"Here's to the Woman who soothes the brow an' lays 
our fears an' frets — " 

SECOND GHOST 

" Here's to the Wine that lightens the tongue an' softens 
the old regrets — " 

THIRD CHDST 

" An' Song salutes the new recruits that come to our 
crowd each day — " 

ALL THR£B 

" Weill Weill We rattle our bones on the Broadway 
stones at night on the Big White Way I " 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



"THE SPIRIT OF YOU" 

McSWEAL, of the Battery, private; with a wound 
that he couldn't survive. 
(" Press hard on the blood-flow, doctor; we'll try to 

keep him alive.") 
McSweal, of the Battery, speaking — to a locket set 

turquoise blue — 
" No chaplain to see me departing? Well, I'll pray to 
the Spirit of You. 

" I've groped as a child in the darkness, when it feels 

for its mother's breast; 
I've cried for a nameless something, and sought for a 

lighter rest ; 
I've listened in blackest silence in hope of a voice I knew, 
And I turn from a hopeless praying to pray to the Spirit 

of You. 

" T is an old, old, helpless longing that quickens the 

stagnant veins; 
T is a world-old crying for something that rouses the 

hidden pains; 
'T is a hopeless searching for surcease — I've called on 

the gods that are true, 
And now I recall my religion — but turn to the Spirit 

of You. 

19 



"THE SPIRIT OF YOU" 
"There's a violet scent in my nostrils; there's a violet 

breath on my cheek; 
I'm seeking no thin-worded parting — well knowing you 

never would speak. 
Now the moments that waited run swiftly — aye, time 

was the friend I knew; 
And he's brought me at last to my altar — to pray to 

the Spirit of You. 

"I've cursed in my moments of passion; besought with 

a heart contrite; 
But never an answer to praying — though I'm having it 

answered to-night. 
'Tis an old, old, cold, old longing — 'tis a dreaming that 

never came true — 
But the blessing of Faith comes to me as I pray to the 

Spirit of You." 

We laid him out there as he wanted — McSweal, of 

the Battery, dead; 
With a blanket of perfumed blossoms; and the guidon 

under his head; 
With the locket still clasped in his fingers — we gave 

him a volley or two. 
And we left him out there as he wanted — to talk with 

the Spirit of You! 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



•'P4L" 
(Algeria, 1910.) 

THEY'S a guy in a tent beyond me and he's suckin' 
a sickly flute; 
Xhey's another thumbin' a bum guitar and tryin' to 

sing, to boot; 
They're givin' a hand to a long, lean stiff who come 

from the sout' o' France, 
And they's a stink o' strong men needin' a bath as a 

gang starts in to dance. 
They's a graveyard smell in the very air as the sun 

glare sweats the sand 
And melts the tallow in the heart wit' the iron o' the 

homesick brand; 
They's a restless whine from the picket line where Ac 

bosses sway and prance, 
And I'm thinkin' o' Pal who died to-day for the giddy 

ole flag o' France. 

I'm settin' alone in me solitude wit' me thoughts that 

are thoughts o' Pal 
Who died to-day on the sand-floored plain ; 
Who's gone for good from worry and pain — 
(And he won't be bothered by sun or rain,) 

Pal, me dear ole Pal, 



"PAL" 

We blew from the burg o' New Orleans hived up on 

the Kate McQraw — 
(We'd croaked a flatty in Baltimore and we beat, by a 

nose, the law.) 
And Any-Olc-Whcrc was good for us and Any-Ole- 

Thing a chance — 
So we finds ourselves in a month or two in the crummy 

blue clothes o' France. 
We were boot to boot as the column chai^d the same 

as we went through life ; 
I felt him fall and I sensed the " zing " of a bod>face 

Arab's knife; 
And the gang they laughed when I laid him down to 

sleep in the shiftin' sands — 
Wit' a touch o' me lips to his red moustache as I crost 

his blood-stained hands. 

I'm settin' alone in me solitude and me thoughts are 

thoughts o' Pal ; 
{He flopped from his boss and the chai^ went by — 
There wasn't but me to help him die 
And there isn't a soul but me to cry 

For Pal, me dear ole Pal.) 

We met as kids in the long ago and wc trained to men 

— and crocks; 
Ours was a friendship dost and fast, the kind like you 

read in books. 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



"PAL" 

Ours was a friendship women don**! break; be onct took 

a frail from me — 
. But I've heard Pal laugh as he stood the gafE for me in 

the Third Degree. 
I liked that gal but she liked him best — he'd the ways 

that a woman knows; 
(When a man won't fight for the like of a gal it's as 

strong as a friendship goes;) 
But ours was a friendship women d<Mi't break — when 

the time for the choosin' came 
My Fid he followed me hard and fast and I reckon I'd 

done the same. 

So I'm settin' alone in me solitude wit' me thoughts that 

are thoughts o' Pal — 
Who sleeps to-night 'ncath a hard-boiled sky 
And the lilies o' France that made him die; 
He went wit' never the bat o' an eye — 

Pal, me dear ole Pal. 

Oh, I liked that gal, but I liked him best and she's 

waitin' back there for one; 
(He was wounded bad and he had to die so I helped 

wit' the butt o' me gun;) 
For I stood next to me dear ole Pal wit' the frail that 

he grabbed from me — 
And a friendship's through when a man goes down wit' 

his woman and goods left free. 
23 



"PAL" 

Dear ole Pal, the Big White Line is a hell of a ways 

from here; 
But I've planted you deep and planted you tight and 

bedded you down wit' a tear; 
And you stick there where you've lots of room till the 

horn o' the Judgment Day — 
And I'll drink your healt' wit' the frail wc liked when 

I git to the Big White Way! 

Yes, I'm settin' alone in me solitude wit' me thoughts 

that are thoughts o' Pal ; 
Who died from a wound and a smack on the head; 
(But the frail won't know for me Pal is dead — 
And the dead don't talk, w'ich is nice o' the dead — 

Good-bye me dear ole Pal!) 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SONG OF THE STRIKE-BREAKERS 



B 



OX-CARRED an' stockaded; 
Bayonet-paraded - 



" Hiarnessed-bulls " behind us an' a squad on either side. 
Awake, it's bricks an' curses ; 
Asleep, we dream o' hearses — 
That's us! They call us Rough Necks, an' we're picked 

because we're tried! 
That's us! We're diy o' morals, an' fiat in purse an' 
pride I 

"Scab! Scab! Scab! 

Oh, you lousy labor scab!" 
But it's dollart a day to hear 'em say — 
" Sca-a-a-b!" 



W'y the start o' scabbin's in Chapter Four, if I read my 

Bible plain; 
When Abel he showed his card to God, an' God he was 

sore at Cain; 
For Cain's work hadn't the Union Brand, though mebhe 

he'd straggled hard — 
But they wasn't no Open Shop them days, an' a worker 

must have a card. 

25 



THE SONG OF THE STRIKE-BREAKERS 

An', foUowin' on, they ralked in the field; the Bible it 

puts that plain, 
An' Abel the Union Man, no doubt, he joshed at the 

work o' Cain — 
With many a stingin' word, perhaps, an' many a verbal 

jab. 
An' when Cain started to work ag'in, his brother he 

called him "Scab!" 



So, ever since, as I figure it out, the breed o' the line 

o' Cain 
Are scabs on -the sores o' Abel's folks, an' a tight scab 

gives 'em pain; 
(Our hands arc stained with our brother's blood — Oh, 

the swing o' the club and dirki) 
By God, we're shameless enough to live, so we'll live at 

our brother's work! 



We know the graveyard's wicked leer, an' the roar o' 

the fires o' Hell; 
It comes as the 'V'D3A<SS moves along like a boat on a 

fiiin* swell ; ■ 
Branded vags by the hard o' God, from the strength o' 

earth we're barred — 
An' in shame we're doin' our brother's woA, backed up 

by the Enoch Guard! 
26 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SONG OF THE STRIKE-BREAKERS 

Grind the wheels with a bitter wail, as the soaped 

tracks jolt an' throb: 
Am I my brother's keeper, too, along with my brother's 

Out o' the ground his blood it calls, Oh, the weight o' 

our load is hard 
When we're tryin' to do our brother's work, but minus 

his Union Card! 



The only Union you'll find to-day that's runnin' an 

Open Shop 
Is the one our friend Starvation keeps, an' it works you 

until you drop; 
For God is sore on the sons o' Cain an' the work that . 

we try to do — 
An' a curse grow^ls out o' the mouth o' earth as our 

brother's blood seeps through! 

"Scab! Scab! Scab! 

Oh, you lousy labor scab!" 
Bui it's dollars a day to hear 'em say — 
" Sca-a-a-bl" 

Jeered, but feared — an' hated; 
Cemetary slated; 
Battered skulls an' shattered hulls, should we be sat- 
isfied? 

37 



THE SONG OF THE STRIKE-BREAKERS 

Awake it's bricks an' curses ; 
Asleep, we dream o' hearses — 
Thv's us! They call us Rough Necks, an' we're flat 

in purse an' pride; 
That's us! There used to be some more, but several 
of us died I 



T,Google 



BALLAD OF LONELY GRAVES 

OH, whether they stand !n a desert plain or the 
heart of a silent wood 
The winds they sing to the lonely graves and the sun 

and the stars are good ; 
And they tell no tales of a wrongful life, but they speak 

in a restful way 
And the men in the lonely graves sleep well awaiting the 
judgment day. 

No, no, the lonely graves don't speak, they lie in the 

warming sun 
And those who pass that way don't know the things 

that the dead have done. 
They can only look at the silent mounds that the patient 

flowers attend — 
And muse, as I've mused at a thousand mounds: " Do 

you rest well, my friend?" 

For the world is seeded with lonely graves, and the 
harvest at judgment day 

Will be an array of unknown men who will wait in a 
quiet way; 

And when they turn to the Docket Clerk, and the rec- 
ord of years defend 

They'll whisper the names to Him low and say: 
" Thanks for that rest. Our Friend! " 
29 



BROTHERS-BY-OATH 

THE AMERICAN NAVY 

"WESTERDAY, or day before, his nobs uiuz in tk' 

■*■ steerage; 
{Stinkin' an' a-sweatin' an' a-stetvin' in th' steerage;) 

Yesterday, or day before, a member o' th' peerage — 
Now he's took a bath an' oath, an' he's American. 

Our flag is as broad as the daylight's range, for we've 
strung it from Pole to Pole; 

An' we're Brothers-by-Oath to half o' th' vrorU who 
answer th' navy's roll ; 

Our flag is as wide as th' Night Time's lid an' it flaps 
to th' Four Winds' breath — 

(An' you'll notice our navy's casualty list when it's pay- 
ing its toll to Death!) 

Adams come from 'way down South; Appel he is Dutch; 

Brady is an Iri^unan, an' Coogan is th' same. 
D'Vorak come from Roosha, so he isn't such-a-mudi — 
But he sleeps beside a Frenchman with D'Arcy for 
a name. 
Ewarts is an Englisher, an' Fadin* Fog is Sioujc; 
Gigliuck an Esquimo; Hk>wdinsld is a Jew; 
Imz is fresh from Germany ; Gomez, a Spanish stew — 
. But each has took his bath an' oath an' passed Ameri- 
can. 

30 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



BROTHERS-BY-OA TH 

Johann out o' Sweden, an' Jorgen he's a Dane; 

Jones a Hi^ins county rube, an' Kccler from New- 
York. 
Lockhait smells a little Scotch, an' Moi^an hails from 
Maine — 
Hang th' list o' Macs and O's on Edinburgh or Corkl 
Philpotts claimin' Pilgrim blood; Quovach is a Pole; 
Raoul an' Eyetalian, but he has a tender soul ; 
Schmidt an' Smith an' also Smythe are half th' navy's 
roll — 
But every one is labeled with a tag: "American." 

Tonka is Kanaka, an' Tompkins Boston bum; 

U.rquhart is a colleger like Van de Venter Scroovre; 
Williams a Creole suspect, from Noo Orleans he come. 

Xanaphc a Grecian gent, who uster shine yer shoes; 
Yousefi, his dad wuz Turk, th' line is mostly done ; 
Zelach come from Switzerland, an' Zurich is a Hun — 
But now they're good Americans — a tag on every one — 

What th' hell is origin, so long as he's a man? 



Yesterday, or day before, this guy %vux in th' steerage; 
(Stinkin' an' a-stveatin' an' a-stewin in th' steerage;) 
Yesterday, or day before, a member o' th' peerage — 
Bui /fotv by bath an oath he ts a clean American. 



BROTHERS-BY-OATH 

Our flag is as broad as th' daylight's range an' we've 

strung it from Pole to Pole; 
Where it will hang by th' grace o' God an' th' strcngtb 

o' our fighting roll ; 
Oh, we're Brothers-by-Oath to all o' th' world an' th' 

world it has tears to shed 
When it's rcadin' th' cable-sent casualty list that's 

headed : " Americans — Dead ! " 



D,g,l,7?<lT,GOOglC 



THE ARMY OF GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

(civil engineers) 

"^r O bands are playing gayly when they're going into 

No crowds are cheering madly at their deeds of derring- 
do; 
They arc owing small allegiance to any flag or faction — 
Their colors on the sty-line and their war cry, " I*ut 
it through! " 

Ahead of bath and Bible and of late repeating rifle, 

The flags can only follow to the starting of their trail; 
They herd the leagues behind them, every mile the 
merest trifle; 
They mark the paths of safety for the slower sail an'd 
rail. 

They work the Quite Impossible; they scofE the earth 
and water — 
They've solved the problems of the air and found 
them easy, too. 
They quell the ocean's raging, the mountains' fearful 
hauteur, 
As they march toward the sky-line with the war cry, 
" Put it through I " 

33 



THE ARMY OF GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

Their standards kiss the breezes from the Arctic's cool- 
ing ices 
To where the South Pole's poking out its undiscovered 
head; 
You can see their chains-a-snaking through the lands of 
rum and spices — 
And East and West you'll always find their unrepining 
dead. 



No time for love and laughter, with their rods upon 
their shoulders, 
No time to think with vwn regret of home or passing 
friends. 
They are slipping down the chasms, charging up the 
mi^ty bowlders. 
The compass stops from overwork; the pathway never 
ends. 



They slit the gullet of the earth; diverge its hoarded 
riches 
(But life's too short for them to stop and snatch a 
rightful share) ; 
They've a booking on the Congo putting in some water | 

ditches; 
A dating to take tea with death; they make it by a I 

hairl 

34 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE ARMY OF GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

You will find their pickets watching in the unex|>ecte<l 
places; 
You will hear them talking freely of the Things-That- 
Can't-Be-Done ; 
Oh, the Faith they ^ak so strongly and the Hope that's 
in their faces — 
It lights the gloom of What's-the-Use as brightly as 
the sun! 

No bands are playing gaily and no crowds arc madly 
cheering ; 
No telegraph behind them -tells their deeds of derring- 
do; 
But forward goes the legion, never doubting, never 
fearing — 
Their colors on the sky-line and their war cry, " Put 
it throqghl " 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE "HAS BEEN" 

nWEJT o' the kosm in blankets 
O Breath o' the timothy hay; 
Champ o' their teeth at their feedin'. 

Stamp o' the feet at their play; 
Stink o' the racin' stables — 

Roar o' the track an' ring — 
Is music an' perfume for a Has-Been 

Who rode for a furrin' king/ 

Me, as is boss o' the jocke}^' room, (an' the half o' 

them mostly cooks;) 
WhoV makin' their weights in the Turkey baths an' 

ridin' to suit the books; 
Me, as is elbowed so freely around by all o' this Eutter 

trash 
Once rode a race for a furrin' king wit' a 'Merican 

Flag for a sa^! 

You talk o' ycr dippylomatters, an' the fame they has 

.brought to the flag — 
Why, they'll be dead a t'ousand years wit' never a thing 

to brag — 
But the woild sat up an' noticed, an' it made a con- 

siderabic splash 
When I rode for a furrin' noble gent wit' a 'Merican 

flag for a sash I 

36 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE "HAS-BEEN" 

I was gcttin' me a start at Sheepshead Bay an' workin' 

for Father Bill 
Who kept me light wit' a ridin' bat an' a momin's gal- 

lopin' drill; 
I was up on the sellin' platers an' the mutts that never 

could win 
When I finds me seat on the bosses' necfcs an' me hands 

as light as a pin. 



Me, as is king o' the lightweight jocks in a week at the 

Sheepshead meet; 
Wit' a cast-iron nerve an' a level nut, an' me judgment 

couldn't be beat; 
Always somewhere in the money, an' gittin' the best o' 

the mounts — 
Puttin' them over at t'ree a day, an' only the winnin' 

counts! 



Mc, that they called the Marvelous Kid an' never a 

race I t'rowed — 
The players no longer foUcred dope, but <Mily the bosses 

I rode; 
Never a long shot under me that they didn't make it a 

kill — 
I rode in the mud at Noo Orleens, an' I rode 'em at 

Emeryville. , 

37 



sea; I'm a frost 



THE "HAS-BEEN 

So I went wit' me crouch acrost the s 

when it comes to looks 
They give me a big fat boss laugb, an' I put a crimp in 

their books; 
Beatin' them bimi ole riders an' poundin' the betting 

ring — 
An' then I'm hired for a president's bit to ride for the 

furrin' king I 



Me, wit* his mount in a swell stake race, an' a price 

'bout twenty to one ; 
(I'm out all night wit' a gang o' guys a takin' aboard 

a bun;) 
An' I'm there when the starter calls us, but me judgment 

had gone to sma^ — 
Cause I slips on the kingie's ccdors, wit' a 'Merican flag 

for a sash I 



Say, it won't be so quiet, when all o' the world's gone 

dead 
As it was when I rode for the post parade a-bobbin' me 

achin' head — 
An' never again while bosses run will there be such a 

race or ride, 
For I rode wit' me head an' me hands an' heels an' 

walloped the furrin' pride! 
38 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE "HAS-BEEN" 

I give 'cm the show of a lifetime, an' I'm as limp as a 

rag, 
But I wins for his worship's colors, along wit' the 

'Merican Hag; 
It busted the bettin' public, an' Lord, how the lobsters 

roared — 
They couldn't beat me at ridin' but they beat me before 

their board! 



Me, as is boss o' the jockeys' room, an' down on the 

ground for life; 
An' me money had gone in a sucker way before they 

slipped me the knife; 
I took me tack to the ibusfaes, but me nerve it had gone 

to smash — 
Since I rode for the furrin' noble gent wit' a 'Merican 

flag for a sash I 



That's me — as is light as a 'prentice boy, but me hands 

no longer are good, 
Me judgment o' pace is rotten, an' me legs they is tumin' 

to wood; 
That's me — as is swipin' the bosses now, an' isn't allowed 

on the track — 
That they're callin' the good ole Waser — an' the Has- 

Been never comes back — 
39 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE "HJS-BEEN" 

But, you talk o' ycr dippylomattcrs, an' the fame th^ 

has brought to the flag — 
Why, they'll be dead a t'ousand years an' never a thing 

to brag; 
But the racin' wotld won't never fo^;et how I makes 

that play so brash 
An' rode for a furrin' n^al gent wit' a 'Merican flag 

ior a sashl 

Sweat o' the bosses in blankets 

Breath a' the timothy hay; 
Champ o' the teeth at their feedin' 

Stamp o' the feet at their play; 
Stink o* the racin' stables; 

Roar o' the trad at/ ring 
Is music, an' perfume for a Has-Been 

Who rode for a furrin king! 



THE SONG OF KING BARLEYCORN 

"Xy ICH man, poor man, beggar man, thief " — 

■^»- Broken hearts and a Tearful Grief; 
" Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief " — 
Listen to the roll of Barleycorn ! 

Down in the Dead Room there they lie ; 
Down in the Dead Room Sob and Sigh, 
Nod to Terror with a fishy eye — 
Listen to the dii^e of Barleycorn ! 

Sorrow, Hate and Grim Despair 
All lie sheeted and quiet there — 
Down in the Dead RoMn; who's to care? 
Listen to the joy of Barleycorn ! 

Desolate homes and bitter sneers; 
Sun-dried graves and women's tears — 
(Down in the Dead Room no one hears — ) 
Listen to the song of Barleycorn I 



SONG OF THE STEEL WORKER 

WELL, gentlemen — swell gentlemen — in your 
frowsy, drowsy clubs. 
Take note o' me an' Bill McGhee, an' twenty other 

dubs 
Who'rc stuck agin the sky line, like flies agin a wall — 
Ho, think o' me an' Bill McGhee, an' watch us as wc 

crawl 
Around the bars, between the stars an' up the shafts o' 

day; 
You hear the gang when the hammers clang an' the 

bullgines hoist away! 



" Ho, give us a job to fix the moon ; to tinker the golden 

stair I 
Give us a chance an' see us prance along a path o' airl 
We'll hang for hours by our teeth to the flowers that 

grow in the turquoise bed, 
An' riffle a seine through the silver rain for the tears 

that the angels shed I " 

Aye, gentlemen — high gentlemen — in your frowsy, 

drowsy clubs, 
Tate note o' me an' Bill McGhee an' twenty other 

dubs 

42 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



SONG OF THE STEEL WORKER 

(The half o' them arc come-ons, an' the other half's a 

scream) — 
But watch 'em as they sift between the baijks o' rism' 

steam! 
Toward the clouds, above the crowds, above the dinky 

town — 
They follow the flight o' the diafts o' li^t that God 

Himself sends down I 

Ho, gentlemen — so, gentlemen — at yout hasteful, 

wasteful ease, 
Get on to us an' hear us cuss, an' watdi us as we squeeze 
Tie girders into decent shape, an' see the graceful way 
We swing like toy balloons to meet the coroin' o' the day! 
Toward the sky we climb so high ; through vacant space 

we grope — 
We're anchored there by earnest prayer, with God our 

chiefest hope! 

" So give us a chance to paint the clouds, or prop the 
fallin' stars; 
Give us a crack at the milky track, or a job to rivet 

Mars. 
We'll can the thunder an' mate Jove wonder who's 

stealin' his lightnin' bolts — 
And step up to Venus, who'll say that she's seen us 
when we hand her a couple o' joltsi " 



43 



FOR THE CRY OF A LITTLE CHILD 

T DREAMED of a legion of women, who waited with 

■^ eyes aglow 

In the shadow of Loves Forgotten, by the Ports of the 
Long Ago; 

I dreamed of a legion of women whose faces were ten- 
derly mild — 

And bark I In the night I heard it — the cry of a little 
chad! 



I looked on the waiting women through the mist of a 
thousand years; 

And some of their eyes were smiling and some were suf- 
fused with tears. 

Yet they sang as a choir in training, and the song of the 
waiting throng 

Was the old, old cry to Heaven; " How long, O Lord, 
how long? " 

I dreamed of a legion of women who stood in a driving 

rain; 
Who raised their voices singing, yet sang but one refrain; 
I looked on the waiting wMnen, and their faces were 

white and wild — 
And hark I In the night I heard it — the cry of a little 

child 1 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



BALLADS OF A BEACH COMBER 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



PTHO GOES THIS WAYf 

THIERE ain't a single reason why a man should go 
astray; 
There's about a million reasons why he shouldn't. 
But who's a-huntin' Reason when ole Folly calls 

" Away? " 
You needn't try to find it, 'cause ^ou couldn't. 
There is many an' many a pathway w'lch is crooked as 
a snake; 
Likewise there's many a pathway w'ich is straight 
An' they has a lot of sameness, barrtn' one is hedged 
with tameness 
When you clears yer ship beyond th' Golden Gate! 



ROSES OF d DREAM 

A WOMAN'S a scent of perfume; a snatch of a pass- 
■**■ ing song, 
And loving a haze of hashee^ for making the bnun go 

wrong; 
Dear Christ I But I loved the odor, the music spoln 

Heaven to me — 
(Hark I That's the pound of the breakers and the roar 

of the open sea!) 

Somehow I'm thinking of roses — but blessing the coral 

bar 
That sends me the song of the breakers — my thinking 

might wander too far; 
Somehow I'm thinking of roses — and dreaming — and 

dreaming — Ah, mel 
(Hark! That's the throb of the breakers and the sound 

of the (q>cn sea!) 

Somehow I'm thinking of roses and scenting a rose per- 
fume; 

Oh, this is the ^ringtime yonder, and roses arc coming 
to bloom! 

And soon it will be white summer — ^but what can it 
mean to me? 

(Hark I There's the song of the breakers and the voice 
of the open seal) 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



ROSES OF A DREAM 

Somehow I'm thinking of roses and light and a lilting 

song — 
(But loving's a haze of ha^eesh for making the brain 

go wrong.) 
Of roses of white and crimson — of dusk — and a friend- 

lytiee- 
(Hark! There's the sound of the breakers and the roar 

of the open sea!) 

Aye, a woman's a scent of perfume, the breath of a 

fading rose — 
And music don't last forever, however sweetly it goes; 
But somehow I'm thinking of roses that carry an ancient 

plea — 
(Thank God! There's the throb of the breakers and the 

roar of the open sea I ) 

A woman's a scent of perfume, a snatch of a passing song 
And loving a haze of hasheesh for making the br^n go 

wrong — 
Did I say that I loved the odor? Ah, well, let the roses 

be — 
(Hark! There's the wail of the breakers and the sigh 

of the open sea!) 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GODS OF YESTERDAY 

''TT^IS the soul of Matthew passm' in the blackness 
J- o' the night; 

T is the soul of Matthew talkin' to itself — 
(Ah, say!) 
T is the echo of his widies 'fore he goes to feed the 
fishes — 
'Cause who'd bespeak his own soul but himself? 
(Ah, say I) 

" Me, as has bowed in worship at a pagan idol's shrine, 
A-chantin' prayers to Something, an the same was callin' 

Mine; 
Me, as has burned good incense for to drive ill luck away 
Am searching — 'cause I'm dyin' — for the Gods of Yes- 
terday." 

I have heard the blood a-dnppin in a creepy sort o' way; 
I have heard his victims cryin' 'fore they died — 
(Ah, say I) 
I have seen their pinky faces, as he shot *em in their places 
-An' I know his soul's a-meanin' when it sighed! 
(Ah, say!) 

" I've skimmed the earth o' rotten spume to mold a human 

The same you see before you an' the same is Matthew 
Storm! 

50 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GODS OF YESTERDAY 

The same they call the wrecker — an' he's seekitt' for to 

pray — 
To bow his head a moment to the Gods of Yesterday/ " 

I've heard him curse his Father-God an' seen him strike 
his blows — 
{You hear his soul a talkin' to itself?) 
(Ah, sayl) 
An' I'll do some pretty bettin' that his God He ain't for- 
gettin' 
But'll leave his soul a-^eakin' to itself 1 
(Ah, sayl) 

" Me, as has long forgotten how to start a single prayer, 
Exceptin' ' now I lay me,' an' my memory's stallin' there; 
Where is that man called Jesus — Ah, there's no one here 

to pray 
An' take me back a moment to the Gods of Yesterday!" 

Aye, the soul of Matthew's pas»n' an' it's shunned upon 
the way — 
It's damned before it's startin' on the trip — 
(Ah, say!) 
An' I'll het there's ^irits layin' all along his path an' 
prayin' 
That he won't be long in dnq^in' from his ship! 
(Ah, sayl) 

51 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GODS OF YESTERDAY 

" Me as has bowed in worship at a heathen idol's shrine 
Am huntin' novj in darkness for the Gods that onct were 

Mine; 
'I am the Resurrection — an' the Life' — forgive me — 

say — 
An' take me back a moment to the Gods of Yesterday/ " 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SONG OF SILENCE 

'"I'^HE surf hallooes to the coral reef, but its voice don't 

■*■ come to mc ; 

(Long ago it spoke about the city's roaring streets) ; 
Now it tells its story to the sad old open sea — 

Knowing it can't quicken none my heart's low, even 
beats. 
No voices come to pester me across the empty years; 
No footsteps falling heavy as to rouse my idle fears — 
And all I hear is Silence, which is soothing to my ears, 

With its song of " Sh-h-hl " 

The West Wind speaks to the mango trees, but I don't 
know what he tells — 
(Long ago 'twas gossip of the kind I loved to hear) ; 
Now he breathes it softly as the echo in the shells — 

Knowing he's no news for mc to start a smile or tear. 
Oh, heart of mine, we listened long ago for every word; 
Oh, heart of mine, we waited, and what hopes within us 

stirred ; 
But now vre heark to Silence, and the memory has been 
blurred 
By its song of " Sh-h-h ! " 

The sea birds speak to the flowers and the waves talk to 
the beach — 
(Long ago I listened for a message meant for mel) 
53 



THE SONG OF SILENCE 

Hlt^es are buried yonder where the very foam don't 

reach — 

Let them tell their story to the wide-eyed wicked sea ! 

Oh, heart of mine, we listened long ago by day and ni^t; 

Oh, heart of mine, we waited till our hopes had felt the 

Wight; 
And then we heard the Silence — and the dark was 
turned to light 
By its song of " Sh-h-h ! " 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



DREAM OF A DROWSY DAY 

LALOA sits by the palm leaf hut, nursing our young- 
est child ; 
Laloa murmurs some tuneless words in a voice that's meant 

to be mild ; 
And I lie dreaming of ancient loves in the shade of a 

mango tree, 
While Laloa sings to my son and heir, but is keeping her 
eye on me! 
{And Laloa wears at her naked waist a long sharp knife, 
you see!) 

They pass before my memory; a cloud of fluttering 
lace — 

Imogene, with her sloe black hair; Grace of the dream- 
masked face; 

Nell, Katherine, the fair Estelle, Helen, and many more 

Whose voices call me from the waves that finger the 
friendless shore — 
{But Laloa sits by the palm leaf hut and her blow- 
gun stands in the door/) 

I'm thinking of summer nights long gone, and strolls 

'neath a patient moon 
When words came brisk to my thoughtless tongue, along 

with a lovelorn tune; 
55 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



DREAM OF A DROJVSY DAY 

But a man needn't many all of his loves, nor dieti^ the 

one he gets — 
And life would be but a barren waste if he hadn't a few 

regrets — 
{Laloa, there, by the palm leaf hut — I'm owing her 

certain debts I) 

I feel the touch of their lips again in the breezes' soft 

I loved them all, but the things they meant I didn't re- 
gard, I guess; 

And I dream sometime that I'd like to go back, perhaps 
they remember me — 

But Laloa sits by the palm leaf hut with a knife at her 
waist, you see! 
{And Laloa will swing with deadly aim whenever she 
swings at me/) 

Women are women, world without end, and, mostly, 
women are good; 

And those that are bad are not to blame, they're only mis- 
understood — 

For women were all of them made to love by someone, 
possibly me — 

And I love them all, except Laloa, with my son and heir 
at her knee ! " 
(But Laloa sits by the palm leaf hut in range of my 
mango tree!) 

56 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



DREAM OF A DROWSY DAY 

Oh, Laloa's teeth are a betel nut black and her breath 

is a thing to shun. 
But Laloa bore me a son and heir, which is more than 

the rest have done. 
Laloa's father is king of his tribe so my child has claims 

to a throne; 
And I'm not as jealous of Laloa's love as I was with 

some I've known — 
{And then there's Lalo^s knife and gun and a temper 

that's all her own!) 



THE CONSOLER 

THEY wuz slippin' Wingy Wo in a lousy leetle 
hole 
An' they piles 'is coffin 'cavy with some grub to feed 'is 

soul. 
Oh, they piles 'is coffin 'eavy with their rice an' souey 

When I 'appens by th' boneyard an' I smells th' savory 
stew. 

Then I sees 'is widder settin' by th' grave an' weepin' 

sad 
Fer ter keep 'is soul from goin' ter th' place o' things 

wot's bad. 
An' I drors up clost beside 'er an' I whi^crs in 'er ear 
'Till she gives a leetle gi^le an' she dries 'er bitter tear. 

An' I wuz mighty hungry, so I tells 'er on th' spot 
That I met th' soul o' 'usband headed fer th' place wot's 

hot; 
An' I tells that 'e tole fer ter eat th' bloomin' grub 
'Cause 'is time wuz sorter pressin' fer ter catch th' 'Ell- 
ward Stub. 

An' I eats it with a relish an' so fast I'm like ter choke 
While she watches me bewildered from a ring o' punky 



D,g,l,7?<lT,GOOglC 



THE CONSOLER 

Then I wipes my lips an' tells 'er that 'er 'usband slippin' 

free 
'Ad sent 'er back a lovin' kiss an' sent it back by me. 

Oh, I gives to 'er a whackin' kiss upon 'er puggy nose 
An' she blushes down beneath 'er paint just like a blownin' 

rose. 
An' as I wraps my arm around her waist so neat an' 

trim — 
She scz : " 'E sent a kiss tcr me — take this un back ter 



An' so we're livin' 'appy an' a-lovin' quite a lot — 
An' often thinks o' Wingy Wo down in th' place wot's 

hot. 
'Is ghost it never bothered us; we watches every day — 
I wonder if ole Wingy's soul was starved upon th' way? 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE ISLE OF SWEET CONTENT 

WHEN I was young — which I used to be, thoi^ 
my hair is pretty gray — 

I heard the old men talk at night of an island far away; 

They called it the Isle of Sweet Content, but never a 
chart could show 

A route to the isle they all revered and sometime hoped 
to go. 

And they sang a song that stirred the heart and cleared 
the clouded brain: 

They sang the song of Sweet Content, with voices thin 
and almost spent — 

They sang a song and sang it long, a song to this re- 
frain: 

" Ho for the Isle of Sweet Content — 

Hoi Yo-hol 
Follow the stars and the weather's bent — 

They know/ Yo-ho! 
To find the Isle of Sweet Content 
Follow the stars and the weather's bent; 
Somewhere it lies 'neath southern skies — 

Somewhere — Yo-hol " 

Oh, I was young — yes, I used to be — and they talked 

of treasures rare 
To be found on the Isle of Sweet Content and I longed 

to seek them there. 

60 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE ISLE OF SWEET CONTENT 

" East you sail and west," they said, " you beat throu^ 

the southern seas 
To find this Isle of Sweet Content, where spirits dwell 

at ease. 
Sail you true to the northern edge and back to the 

southern pole: 
To find the Isle of Sweet Content follow the stars and 

the weather's bent " — 
They sang their song and sang it long to cheer a tired 

soul. 

Oh, I've grown old as we all must do when the shore 

lines fade away ; 
And the old men stroke their u4iiskers still and yam in 

the old man way, 
But I have learned from starry skies and silent shores 

they meant 
I'd find in the pathless seas of Age the Isle of Sweet 

Content, 
So I sing the song that stirs the heart and clears the 

clouded brain — 
" CHi, I was young and victory meant to find the Isle of 

Sweet Content." 
So I sing their song and sing it long to swell the great 

refrain. 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



WHEN THE SHIPS GO HOME 

T'VE SCO! 'em go from a hundred ports 
■^ With th' breath o' Home in their sails. 
I've felt th' thrall o' th' Homeward Call 

In th' wake they leaves at their tails. 
I've heard th' breezes whisperin' Home — 

Th' Catch in th' throat I know; 
An' I've felt th' dart o' th' Homing Heart 

("Way back in th' Long Ago!) 

A beautiful sight is th' Home Bound boats 

With their bellyin' sails to th' wind; 
An' you hears 'em sigh as they're passin' by 

Th' ones who stay behind. 
Oh, I've seen 'em drift from a hundred porta 

An' I've felt th' call to go ; 
But I've let 'em slide with th' ebbin' tide 

('Way back in th' Long Ago!) 

As I see 'em go from a hundred ports 

I hear th' trees sing " Stay I " 
I hear th' note in th' ocean's throat; 

In th' song o' th' ocean spray. 
Oh, a beautiful dght is th' Home Bound boats, 

But we are the ones who know 
That our hearts are here since wc brougjit them here 

("Way back in th' Long Ago!) 
62 



D,g,l,7?<lT,GOOglC 



THE KING OF MOO 

]\/TE an' tk' King a th' Island o' Moo 
■* ' ■* Settin' beneath a tree; 
Laugkin' an' talkin' as folk'll do — 
Taikin an taktn' a drini or two — 
Spittirt' out inter th' lagoon blue — 
This sez th' King ter me: 

" Goal " 
That's all 'e sez ter me '. 
" Gaol " 



Oh, fer charoiin' conversation just give me th' King o' 

Moo, 
For when th' King's a-talfcin' there's no talb'n' you kia 

do. 
'E ain't so strong wi argyoient; on words 'e's mi^ty shy. 
But 'e never telb 'is 'is'try an' 'c never tells a lie, 

'E never talks no politics; 'e 'asn't none ter talk; 

An' when it comes ter talkin' shop 'is tongue is ^t ter 

balk. 
'E never tries no punnin' w'ich you cannot see the point ; 
An' 'e never tells no stories with th' morals outer joint. 

'E never mentions parents, er 'is kiddies, er 'is wife; 
'E never spoke onkindly o' 'is neighbors in 'is life. 

63 



,.,.„Go 



THE KING OF MOO 

'£ couldn't talk religion, fer 'c don't know wot it 

means — 
'E never sprung an idea that wuz wuth a hill o' beans. 

Oh, fer chaifflin' conversation just give me th' King o' 

Moo; 
Fer 'e confines 'is talfcin' to th' simple word o' " Goo! " 
'E doesn't know my langwidge an' on 'is I'm sorter 

shy — 
An' so we gits along an' lets th' world go whizzin' by. 

Me an' th' King o' th' Island o' Moo 

Speakin' opinions free; 
Never no argyin' 'twixt us ttvo ; 
Laughin' an takin' a drink er two — 
Spiltin out inter th' lagoon blue — 
Jn' sez th' King ter me: 

"Goo!" 
That't all 'e sez ter me: ' 

"Goo/" 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



"GHOSTS" 

THERE'S a dead white boat in th' Haibor, 
There's some dead white folks on deck; 
An' 'er bloomin' fish's a familiar rag 
'At brings a clutch to th' neck. 

But it's only a ghost ; 
With th' shades o' a host 
O' things you've left behind; 
A spirit white o' a lost delight 
An' you must see it blind. 

Oh, th' dead white folks is laughin' 
You can 'ear their voices clear; 

But th' dead white boat's a ghost afloat 
From th' Port o' Another Year, 

It's only a shade 

So be not afraid; 

It's seeking for nothin' here; 

An' you needn't hide. 

It'll go with th' tide 

To th' Port o' Another Year. 



THE PRINCE CONSORT 

HO! Hi'm th' Chief Adwiser ter a SiA-Queen o' th* 
Kaiser — 
Wich 'er name is Bambaloozo, an' she rules th' 'Ogan 
Group; 
(You will get it she's a lady — an' 'er 'ide is ruther 
shady) — 
But Hi 'ad ter be 'er 'usband or she'd put me in th' 
soup! 

Hi didn't mean ter land 'er; Hi'm an hinnercent by- 
stander, 
When she turns 'er glims hupon me an' die rolls 'er 
hyc an' sighed. 
Then she signs she loves me dearly, an' ^e hintermates 
quite clearly 
That Hi'd better be contented or she'd 'ave me stewed 
or fried ! 

So Hi'm th' Chief Adwiser ter a Sub-Queen o' th' 
Kaiser — 
(Hi'd turn me Kingdom Hinglish, but Hi doesn't 'ave 
th' say). 
Fer it seems th' Prince Consorter 'asn't got th' say 'e 
orter — 
So Hi'm 'ten'din' ter me bizness an' Hi don't try gittin' 
gay. 

66 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



SONGS OF THE SERVICE 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



T 



" TAKING ON •' 

H' sergeant sez: " Take off ycr clothes " — 
(Mel Wot's bashful! Ow!) 
But if I must I must, I s'pose^ 
(No use raisin' er row.) 
Sez he: "You read these figgers here! 
" Eyes O. K. Now how's yer ear? 
" What's ycr hite — git on that scale — 
" Holy Moses I Yer a whale! 
" That's all right — I guess you can 
" Make a fust class fightin' man ! " 

Th' sawbones punched me a couple o' jabs — 

(Me, wot's naked! Ow!) 
In th' ribs a couple o' stabs — 

("TTiere! ^ sez he, "That's how!") 
Then he purses up his lips — 
Belts me a couple in 'midships — 
" Searg," sez he, " I guess we can 
" Take this feller fer Uncle Sam — 
" Put on yer clothes there, boy, you am 
" A fust class fightin' man." 

Now," sez Seai^. " Yer pedigree " ; 

(Me, that flustered, Oh!) 
" Everything you tell tcr mc — 

(" 'Cause I wanter know,") 
69 



"TAKING ON" 
" Where you from an' also why — 
" When you vniz young why didn't you die ? 
" Whose yer 'cestors anyway? 
" D'ye know enou^ tcr draw yer pay? 
"Take this oath! Hoi' up yer han' — 
" Now I Yer a fust class fightin' man ! " 

Out at th' fort sez they ter me — 

(Me, wot's mustered in!) 

"We'll teach you things, you lubber; Seel 
(" Yer troubles jest begin.") 

" Wot'd you do 'fore? Carry th' hod? 

" Here! You jine that awkward squad! 

"Walk like this an' walk like that! 

" Can't you see now where yer at? 

" Lord! Don't s'pose we ever can 

" Make you a fust class fightin' man! " 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SONG OF THE BULLET 

LAYIN' out in th' rice fields, th' mud half to th' 
knees; 
Hearing th' lizards croakin' up in th' bamboo trees, 
An' all around th' bushes arc cloaked in th' white o' th' 

mist — 
Wot is that noise that breaks th' spell? Sh-h there! 
Hist I 

" Pang I Zing! Oo-oo-oo-zip!" 
That's th' cry o' th' rifle ball. 
That's th' song it sings ter all — 

"Pang! Zing/ Oo-oo-oo-tipf" 
Hart to th' song o' th' bullet! 

A flash o' light in th' darkness an' all is quiet again ; 
'Ceptin' th' lap o' th' water — " Stop whisperin' there, 

you men ! " 
Only a stray shot out o' th' night — " Lay quiet there, 

you all I " 
HarkI Again th' voice wells out in th' song o' th' rifle 
ball! 

" Ps-st! BIngf z-z-z-z-z-ttipl " 
That's th' tune th' rifle sings 
Speedin' a note on Death's black wings — 

"Pst-st! Bingt z-x-x-x-z-ttip/" 
Bow low to th' song o' th' bullet/ 



THE SONG OF THE BULLET 

Th\ gray dawn slowly shoves it's way out o' th' eastern 

sky- 
"Load magazines! Git ready, men! Now keep them 

pieces dry! 
Hold that line there ! Steady, all ! " Nerves drawn 

tensely tight — 
An' out ahead th' chorus starts as th' dawn breaks inter 

light — 

"Fowl P-ouil C-a-ck-c-a-ck-P-ow!" 
That's th' song th' rifle ball 
Sings in chorus, singin' all — 

" Pow! P-ow! C-a-ci-c-a-ct-P-ow/" 
Oh. hark to th' bullet chorus/ 

Cbargin' acrost th' rice fields, th' water splashin' high ; 
" Stop dodgin' there! Don't mind th' song of them wot 

has gone by; 
Keep close ter cover but go ahead! This ain't no fancy 

drill! 
Aim low! Fire fast, you shavetails! An' fire at ycr 

own sweet will! " 

" Z-z-x-z-x-/ Pang! Bap! Pst-st-stl " 
That's th' key o' th' bullet song; 
That's th' tune; "Here/ Move along!" 

" Z-Z-X-Z-Z-! Pang! Bap! Pst-st-st! " 
■Don't mind th' song o' th' bullet! 
72 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SONG OF THE BULLET 

Someone down there, stretcher men; ta^e him to the 

rearl ' 

" Go on I Go on ! Keep iirin', men, there ain't no 

5t<^pin' here — 
Swing around with th' left o' that line an' make fcr 

that trench ahead — 
There's time enough in the afterwhile tcr count uo them 

wot'sdead!" 

" Ps-si/ Bing! Z-x-z-x-x-txip! " 
That's th' dirge o' tk' ri/Ie ball; 
That's th' way it moans fer all — 

" Ps-st! Bing! Z-z-x-x-z-tsip! " 
Oh, 'ware th' sang o' th' butletf 



OUTPOST. 4 d- M. 

OONS o' th' Momin'. we — 

Blessed is Reveille! 

1 takes my fight in ole daylight 
An after Reveillel 



I see a ^ost go sli{q>in' by, 

I see him through th' trees; 
I hears a low, sad, mournful cry 

Come slidin' down th' breeze! 
I see a goblin' squattin' there 

An' chirpin' merrily — 
Th' mornin' light's a blessed sight - 

An' sweet is Reveille! 



Sons o' th' Mornin' — all; 
Sweet is th' bugle call! 
Th' nightshades start an' ghosts depart 
When they hears that bugle bau/l! 

I sec them trees talcc funny shapes, 

I see them move around ; 
I see scHne big, fat, monstrous apes 

A-creepin' on th' ground. 
74 



Ogle 



OUTPOST, 4 A. M, 

I sec tall men with shiny knives 
Come slippin' back o' mc — 

They hike away at break o' day — 
Oh, sweetest Reveille! 

Son o' tk' Momin — Me! 
Oh, blessed Reveille! 
It ain't so hard a-standin guard 
Just after Reveille! 



THE LADIES IN THE TRENCHES 

A SOLDIER SONG OF TH£ SULU ISL£S 

IF a lady wcarin' pantaloons is swingin' wit' a 
knife, 
Must I stop an' cross-examine as ter sex? 
" Air you Datto Mudd, his ownself, Ma'am, or air you 
jest his wife? 
Kindly answer 'fore I reach yer solar plex." 
If a lady wcarin' britches is a-hidin' in th' ditches, 

An' she itches fer me ears as souvenirs, 
Must I arsk before I twist 'er: " Air you Miss or air 

you Mister? " 
■ How shell a bashful man decide th' dears? 

Chorus 

Ladies, if yer wearin' o' yer husband's pantaloons — 

(Mercy! how you makes a soldier blush!) 
You will have ter take th' chances w'ich is tagged to 
husband's pantses. 
Or stay ter home an' make th' babies hush! 
We ain't no clarryvoyants ; if yer wearin' pantaloons 
We must take you as we find jrau when th' guns begin 
their tunes; 
An' we cannot be caressin' though you puzzle us dis- 

When yer wearin' o' yer husband's pantaloons. 

76 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE LADIES IN THE TRENCHES 

We couldn't pick no ladies when we charged th' moun- 
tain height; 
(We wijz busy dodgin' bolo-tnifc an' kreese.) 
But if them folks wuz females, w'y, they made a bully 
fight, 
An' I didn't hear no argyments fer peace. 
They was cuttin', they wuz stabbin', an' a party started 
jabbin' 
At me Adam's apple ; likewise at me eye ; 
Should I stop fer 'pologizin' ter a person so surprisin' ? 
If a lady, then her garments told a lie. 

Chorus. — Ladies, if yer wearin', etc. 

If a lady wearin' pantaloons is in a soldier jam, 

An' she's tryin' most distinct ter take yer life. 
Just tell her that yer needed by yer own dear Uncle Sam, 

An' ax her pardon as you dodge her knife! 
When she cuts an* jabs so spritely, try ter speak to her 
politely. 

An' excuse yerself as nicely as you can; 
But you mustn't take no chances an' don't always judge 
by pantses — 

'Cause you cannot tell but wot she is a man I 

Chorus. — Ladies, if yer wearin', etc. 

It may appear ungallant, but I haven't learned ter see 
Th' difference in a man or maiden's clout. 



THE LADIES IN THE TRENCHES 

If both air wearin' trousers, w'y, I think you will agree 
A bashful man can hardly sort 'cm out. 

If she doesn't wear her dresses must I stop fer makin' 
guesses, 
Wit' a bolo-knifc a-swingin' round me nose? 

An' it causes mc ter worry when I'm in a tearin' huny, 
But I have tcr do me judgin' by their dothes. 



BUGLE CALLS 

TH' light is slowly dawnin' an' th' night has turned to 
mornin' — 
Rout 'em out an' make 'em rub their gimuny, sleepy 
eyes. 
Don't yer hear them bugle calls a-givin' friendly warn- 
in' — 
Don't ycr hear 'em tcarin' out a tune ter reach th' 
skies — 

Playin', sayin' — 

" I can't git 'em up, 
I can't git 'em up, 
I can't git 'em up 
In th' mornin' " — 

Don't yer hear that bugle song, th' day is shore a- 

bom in' — 
Hop inter yer britches — all; inter line in th' barrack 
hall — 

" I can't git 'em up, 
I can't git 'cm up, 
I can't git 'em up a-tall I " 

Hear th' cooks a-shoutin' fcr th' bean pot is a spoutin' — 
Grab yer kits an' hurry up an' git inter th' line. 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



BUGLE CALLS 
Take yer share o' rations never kickin' or a-doubtin' — 
Hear th' bugle telltn' you th' time has come ter dine — 
Playin', say in' — 

" Soupy, soupy, soupy, 
Without a single bean. 
Porky, porky, porky, 
Without a streak o' lean " — 

Don't yer ast fer " seconds " or yer sure ter git a-cloutin'. 
When th' bugle's hootin' then th' cooks is feelin' mean — 

" Soupy, soupy, soupy. 
Without a single bean, 
Porky, porky, porky, 
An' nary streak o' le — an " — 

Drill dust on yer shoulders an' yer shoes feel full o' 
boulders. 
Sleep a-tuggin' at yer eyes before th' recall blows. 
Check roll — you must answer prompt — an' don't you 
sass yer olders — 
Don't you hear th' bugle song compellin' sweet re- 
pose — 

Playin', sayin' — 

" Lights out — 

Lights out — 

Lights out I " 



ogle 



BUGLE CALLS 
Douse yer glims an' go tcr sleep you ornery, lazy soldiers, 
Hear th' bugle tcUin' you ter cover up yer toes — 

" Go to sleep — 
Go — to — sleep — 
Go to sleep!" 



THE CAVALRY 

NOW look away you doughboy men an' stick to ^em 
trenches tight; 
Peek, if you wontcr over ycr dirt an' see a purty fig^t. 
Lo<^ to ytT cindies, one an' all, here goes th' fig^tin' 

crew, 
Hoo-ki! Hang onter yer hat — th' cavalry's comin' 
through I 

Ifs rat-tity-tat on th' dusty road, 
Her^s where th' deviVll git a load — 
Hoo-iil At/ th' air is blue 
When th' cavalry's comin' through/ 

There' some wot likes th' doughboy line, some likes 

th' battery, 
Some is stuck on th' engineers — for mine th' cavalry. 
With yer Icp a-straddle a good ole horse — a horse wot's 

kind an' true — 
Then it's hoo-ki! Hang onter yer hat — th' cavalry's 

comin' through! 

Claciety-clack; spit out th' dust, 
Poller yer leader if you bust — 
Wee-ovi-wQWI There's a hullabaloo 
When th' cavalry's comin' through/ 
82 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE CAVALRY 

This "fight on feet" ain't just my style; feel safer on 

a horse 
When I feel him quiver beneath my knees an' th' captain 

shows th' course. 
Six-gun in hand an' a yell in my teeth, then I knows 

what to do — 
Hbo-kil Hang onter yer hat — th' cavalry's cwnin' 

through ! 

Ta-ta-ra tk' bugle sings — 
Feels 's'f you was on wings — 
Yee-otu-wowt An then wa-hoo/ 
When th' cavalry's comin' through/ 



THE FILIPINO SCOUT 

T KNEW him up in North Luzon, when he was 
■^ musteie'd in 

(Chased him 'Tound the rice-fields till my nerves had 
gone to wreck), 
His shirt-tail flapptn' freely an' his panties rather thin; 
Meek an' lowly critter with his shoes hung 'round his 
neck. 

But now he's mc brother in arms, 

A-wearin' the same uniform; 
But, banin' the clothes an' barrin the gun, 
He's the very same feller I kept on the run; 

An' I wonder where he would be at — 

Not doubtin' his courage, at that; 
He might be all right if it came to a fight — 

Still, I wonder where he would be at! 

I've seen him move to acti(»i 'gainst his people, d'ye 

(Now, I'm no roastin' critic, an' speak for myself 
alone) ; 
He fought 'em pretty handy — with the white men dost 
behind — 
But I'm a bit suspicious o' the guy who fights his own E 

84 



,.,.„Go 



5gle 



THE FILIPINO SCOUT 

An' now he's mc brother in arms, 

A-wearin' the same uniform; 
But I figg^T he's lightin' his own family; 
Why wouldn't he turn an' go peltin' at me, 

Like he useter do out in the sun, 

When his commonest gait was a run? 
I'm curious to know, if it came to a show. 

Which way he'd be aimin' his gun I 

I've known him since he saw the States; his chest ex- 
pansion wide 
(His photos o' the white girls wot he writes to every 
boat — 
Your sister or your sweetheart — wore agin his greasy 
hide), 
His swagger an' his pidgin talk, an* collars 'round 
his throat. 

Oh, yes, he's me brother in arms, 

A-wearin' the same uniform ; 
But, barrin' the clothes an' barrin' the gun; 
He's the very same feller I kept on the run ; 

Who sniped me by day an' by night ; 

Who never stood once for a fight; 
I'm curious to know if it came to a show 

Just where to expect him to light ! 



"Hep! HepI Hayfoot! Strawfoot! 
Belly full o' bean soup — Hep!" 

— Ancient lay. 

GRAVEL agitators on a long, hard bike — 
Hep! 
Kickin' up an orful dust along tlie dreaiy pike — 

Hep! 
Bay'nit scaUnrd draggin' o' ycr foot-tracks out; 
Mouth a-pantin' open like a landed mountain trout: 
Try ter lag a little, an' you hear the sergeant shout: 

Hep! 
Hep! Hep! Murphy git in step; 
The hod ain't on yer shoulder now, so 
Hepl Hep! Hep! 

Anununition weighin' 'bout a quarter of a ton — 

Hep! 
Blanket roll a-chafin', an' yer hand stuck to yer gun — 

Hepl 
Sweat a-diggin' furrows in the dust around yer neck; 
Mouth is full o' sand, an' in yer ears alxtut a peck; 
Try ter slack a little, an' the sci^cant sings his check: 

Hepl 
Hep! Hepl Lengthen out the step! 
Kick yer legs out faster, there, an' 

Hepl Hep! Hep! 



Ogle 



"HI KIN'" 

Cavalry goes slidin' by like wc was standing still — 

Hepl 
Slt^fpin' in their saddles an' they guy us as we drills 

Hep! 
Wait until you see the column goin' inter camp, 
See us hit the pillows, then it's them wot's got tcr tramp, 
Guardin' our sweet slumber an' a-shakin' in the damp — 

Hepl 
Hep! Hep! Liven up that step! 
Yer all a-walkin' half-asleep, so 

Hep! Hep! Hep! 



(ballad of the test ride) 

I'M walkin' me post at the guard house, an' thinkin' 
o' nothin' at all. 
When I sees me capting acrost the parade in front o' the 

officers* hall; 
He's steppin' along remorseful like, an' he's sore, like 

a hoss, up front, 
An' fur as I am, I feel fcr him, fer I hearin' me capting 
grunt: 

"Giddap!" 

I reckon he's somewhat stiff in his pegs; 
(They's a V-shaped slant to the set o' his legs) 
An' he's walkin' along like steppin' on eggs — 
(Hooray for the doughboy hosanan!) 

They's a stringhalt limp in his off front leg an' his 

caisson's hard to steer; 
He favors the nigh hind hoof a bit an' he's cautious 

like to the rear: 
They's a cold, hard look in his mild blue eyes, an' he 

sweats like a fretted Turk — 
An' his words come floatin' acrost to me as I notice his 

lips at work: 

"Giddapl" 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



" GIDDAP " 

But he did his thirty-odd miles to-<Jay 
Atop of a hard-mouthed, flint-backed bay. 
An' he's tested down to the bone, they say — 
(Hooray for the doughboy hossmanl) 

I reckon as how he dreams " Giddap," and boots hisself 

in his sleep; 
An' barrin' the blisters an* stovc-up pins he probably 

Aggers it cheap; 
But the Lord didn't measure a doughboy's seat fer to 

fit a McOellan tree — 
W'ich I reckon you ast my capting now you'll find he 

agrees with me; 

"Giddap!" 

They tell me the test ride's highly prized 

By the war department, but them trees ain't 

sized — 
An' a 'doughboy's trousers ain't galvanized — 

(Hooray for the doughboy hossman!) 



THE WAGE OF THE FIGHTING MEN 

TTE warn't no sich a feller as deserves an epitaph, 
^ -^ He were jest a rcg'lar soldier an* he fell in duty's 

path, 
He stood along o' others an' he took his knocks an' 

slaps, 
(An' he got his full three volleys an' th' same olc taps.) 

"Route step! MarchI" For yer leavin' of a grave. 
He didn't have so muck to give but all he had he gave; 
An' a soldier has been paid in full when death about him 

wraps, 
{An' he gets his full three volleys an' th' same ole taps.) 

He were a fust rate feller an' a bunkie onct o' mine, 
I filled tb' gap his droppin' out made in th' firin' line. 
Hero? Nope! Can't say he was — one o' tb' reg'lar 

chaps — 
(An' he got his full three volleys an' th' same ole taps.) 

" Ashes be to ashes, dust to dust," th' chaplain said 
When he spoke his little piece above th' soldier wot was 

dead; 
Then they auctioned off his clothin' an' his other 

soldier traps, 
(For he got his full three volleys an' th' same ole taps.) 
90 



n„„.,,.G0 



THE WAGE OF THE FIGHTING MEN 

That is th' way you all must go a,-fightin' for th' fl^, 
Just put yer best foot foremost an' don't never let it lag; 
An' if you foller out th' lines th' War Department maps 
(W'y you'll get yer full three volleys an' th' same ole 
taps.) 

"'Bout facet March/" An' let th' bandmen play; 
'F you worry about a man wofs gone yer hair^ll soon 

be gray; 
Taie up some other subject, for th' flag stUl gayly 

flaps — 
{He got his full three volleys an th' same ole taps^) 



THE SONG OF THE SADDLE 

Ji_TVNK o' meat an raw pertater, 
■*■ ■* Sop ^ an 'later-sop — an 'later / " 

Mornin' is peclin' her covers 

An' grabbin' her garb o' day; 
Out with them Morryphus lovers, 

The column is up an' away! 
Away on the long, hard hikin' 

To meet the dark in the west; 
Straight to the night-time strikin' — 

Where mebbe there'll be some rest. 

" Hunh o' meat an' raw pertater. 
Sop — an' 'tater-sop — an' 'taterl" 

Once with the doughies an' field-guns, 

Once with the coast guns, too; 
(Plattsburg an' all o' the dead ones — ) 

Now with the workin' crew. 
Up at the peep o' the mom in', 

Right at the bugle's squeal — 
Hellity-bcnt at the wamin' — . 

Stables — the ghost o' a meal. 

" Hunk o' meat an' raw pertater. 
Sop — an' 'tater-sop — art" 'later! " 
92 



Ogle 



THE SONG OF THE SADDLE 

Tails o' the hosses dra^n' 

An' a trail o' dust behind, 
Down in the saddles s^gin' — 

Yec-ho! An' the capting 's blind. 
Miles o' the way behind you, 

Miles o' the way before. 
An' none to find, or find you — 

(They tell you that this is war!) 

" Hunt o' meat an' raw pertater. 
Sop — an' 'tater-sop — nw" 'tater! " 

Bellies so loose they 're a-fl^pin' 

An' thiakin' yer throat is cut — 
Coolin' night breezes snappin' — 

Wake up, now, you pig-headed muttl 
Oh, for the life o' the saddle, 

With nothin' to do but to ride. 
Always upon the skedaddle — 

Gosh! That recruitin' man lied! 

" Hunt o' meat an ram pertater. 
Sop — an' 'tater-sop — nn' 'tater/ " 



THE SKY MARINES 

("Private Jones, B Company, — Regiment, is asNgned 
to duty with the balloon corps." — Army Orders.) 

TI//Tif a dynajnite bomb in me hand, 
' ' A-sailin' the deep-blue sky. 
You'll reckon with me on land or on sea 
Sometime in the sweet bye an' bye. 

Put away ycr coast defense, an' send yer boats to dock; 
Muster out yer armies, whidi the same is crawlin' 
ants. 
Hide ycr little cities, which you thought was built chi 
rock; 
Stow yer apparatus, for you have n't got a chance. 

^itk a dynamite bomb in me hand, 

A-shoutin ahoy to the moon, 
A dinky valve-stop 'ttvixt a thousand-foot drop. 

In a baggy ole war balloon. 

Onct I was a soldier with a rifle in me hand ; 

(Stop ycr m<ddin' bullets, for you'll need 'em never 
more.) 
Thought I was a wwidcr, which no doubt I was — on 
land; 
Now I knows what horror is a-thinkin' of a war. 
94 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SKY MARINES 

With a dynamite bomb in me hand. 

Oh, pity the earth an' the sea! 
I open me hand, and there won't be no land. 

An' mebbe there won't be no sea. 

Rent a few tornadoes, if yer thinkin' of a fight; 

Hire the rain an' lightnin', an' go buy the wradi o' 
Him. 
Bribe the day to stay away, an' then corrupt the night; 

Even then yer chances 'g'in' our hand is mighty sh'm. 

With a dynamite bomb in me hand, 
I'm a watchin' the shiftin' scenes; 

I grin at the crowds, an the drippy ole clouds 
Make a path for the sky marines. 

Put away yer aimies now, an' walk the ways o' peace; 

What's the use o' playin' while I'm slammin' round 

the skies? 

Spend yer com for silk an' gas, an' quiet will increase; 

Let yer war-boats founder, an' give me the Nobel 

prize. 

With a dynamite bomb in me hand, 

I'm watchin' the quiet increase; 
I'm a re^lar dove a-floatin' above 

At/ argyin' strongly for peace. 



95 



THE GLORY OF WAR 

^t'lTT'HAT makes th' soldier man desert?" th' Col- 
' » onel ast his nurse; 
(Th' same it was a He-Male who was mindin' o* 
th' kid) ; 
" Th' war department tells me that it's daily gettin' 

" My dog rob friend, I wisht that you would &id out 
why it's did. 
" When you get through a-swabb!n' down th' missus' kit- 
chen floor, 
" An' emptyin' out th' kitchen slops an' answcrin' o' th' 

door — 
" I wisht you'd kindly ascertain why men won't stay 
to war — 
" 'Cause it's worryin' th' noble war department." 

Leftl Step! Left! Step! Why do men desert? 
Thirteen casers every month, pants an hat an skirt; 
Workin' hours easy; only ten an' twenf an' tkirt' — 
Say! What makes th' soldiers quit th' armyf 

" You don't presume," th' Colonel said, " they're wantin' 
o' more pay? 
("An' don't forget to give that lawn another healthy 
roll) ; 

96 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GLORY OF WAR 
"Oh, that would be ingratitood; we feed 'em thrice a 
day — 
("An', by th' by, please carry in a ton or two o' 
coal). 
" Now after you have finished o' your little household 

chore, 
" You might dig up that garden, plant a peck o' seed or 

more; 
" An' then I wisht you'd ascertain why men won't stay 
to war — 
" 'Cause it's worryin' th' noble war department." 

Leftl Step! Left! Step! Pick an' shovel drill — 
Target range in puppy tents an' rain an' fever chill/ 
Thirteen casers every month an' glory fit to kill — 
Say! What mates th' soldiers quit th' armyf 

" It's hard enough," th' Colonel said, " for officers to 
live 
(" I wisht you'd beat them carpets well an' fix th' 
heat machine.) 
" Th' hired girls form a union an' their scale we have to 
give — 
" It's nice we have you soldiers for to keep our houses 
dean. 
" Now kindly cufiE my charger up an' lock th' stable 
door; 

9T 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE GLORY OF WAR 

"An' don't you soil your uniform; inspection comes at 

four — 
" Then please go ascertain for me why men won't stay 

at war — 
" 'Cause it's worryin' th' noble war yepartment." 

Leftt Step! Left! Step! Off we go to war; 
Hear th' mowers rattle an th' coal chutes awful roar! 
Recollect them pictures on th' 'cruiiin' o^ce door? 
Say! What makes th' soldiers quit th' armyf 

Th' soldier man must be a man o' height an' grand 

physique. 

They study up his character before they let him pass — 

Must read an' write his English, an' th' same he has to 

speak ; 

Must think a little for himself an' show a lot o' class. 

In every other walic o' life there's room for thousands 

more 
O' men o' caliber like him; they grab 'em at the door — 
Now mebbe that's a reason why th' men won't stay at 
at war — 
On th' salary o' th' noble war department. 

Left! Step! Left! 'Step! Sound a jubilee, 
Dishpans for our cymbals an.' a dust-rag ivavin free; 
Shoulder brooms an mop-sticks when they blow th' re- 
■ veiUe — 

Say/ What makes th' soldiers quit th' armyf 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



B 



PRACTICE MARCHING 
IG Bill Taft one momin' rose a-feclin' somewhat 



He thinks about them soldier boys a-restin'. 
He sez: " Their muscles will git stifi, Oh, ain't it veiy 
sad 
To see them soldier fellers all siestin' ! 
Ho! Issue them an order to take a practice march; 
Their le^'U soon be gittin' stiff like they wuz caked 

with starch ; 
Ho! Issue them an order an' tell 'cm for'ard march — 
It's fierce th' way them soldiers boys are restin'! " 

So it's fourteen miles to Some Place 

An' fourteen to th' Fort; 
So shoulder arms an' knapsacks 

An' order arms an' port. 
It's fourteen miles to Nowhere 

An* grub a nmnin' short, 
But think o' what we're leamin' practice march- 
in' I 
"Twuz Teddy got th' idea when things were gittin' slow; 

He wonders 'bout them soldier boys a-restin'. 
He sez: "I think we oughter have an exhibition, O 

Them soldiers' blood'll likely be congestin'. 
Ho! Issue them an order to mobilize at once; 
Ho ! Issue them an order, wc will have maneuver stunts ; 
99 



531358 L -i-.Gooj^le 



PRACTICE MARCHING 
Hoi Issue them an order an' all th' army grunts; 

For it's fierce th' way them soldier boys are restin' ! " 
So it's ninety miles to That Place 

Maneuvers goin' on. 
It's ninety miles to This Place, 

An' summer days are gone. 
It's phoney fights an* hikin' 

An' rolUn' out at dawn — 
But think o' what we're leamin' practice march- 
in'! 
From New Year's down to Christmas there isn't much 
to do 
Exceptin' in th' barracks sorter restin'. 
Unless scancone gits thinkin' — 'bout every day or two 

About them soldier fellers all siestin'. 
Then issues forth an order to do a practice drill, 
A practice camp, a practice hike, a practice how to kill ; 
Or issues forth an order to practice to be still — 
It's fierce th' way them soldiers boys are restin'. 
Then up a hill an' down a hill 

Th' same as Bonypart; 
Five hundred miles a year to do, 

So make a healthy start; 
Th' officers must do it to — 
Oh, cheer up heavy heart! 
An' think o' what we're leamin' practice mardi- 
in'I 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



AUGUST 13 — '08" 

When the American troops were attacking Manila, 
August 13, 1898, the band of a volunteer regiment 
(First Colorado) played "There'll Be a Hot Time in 
the Old Town To-night." " 

THERE'S a sting to the breeze of the morning, 
There's a lash in the breath of the sea; 
And hark! The bells, the convent bells 

Chant a mournful litany. 
There's a gloomy mist on the rice fields 

That softens the morning glare — 
And mark the shells! The shrapnel shells — 
As a band strikes up an air: 

" Come along git you ready 
Git you brand, brand new gown; 
For there's gwine to be a meeting 
In that good, good ole town." 

There's a slippery dew on the rifles 
Where a trembling hand clings fast ; 

There's a plaintive whine as the firing line 
Chums the mud in hurrying past. 



"AUGUST 13— '9S" 
A break in the mist-curtained morning 

And a shell b^ns a croon — 
Then 3 rising yell and a blast of Hell 

As a band strites up a tune: 

" Where you knows everybody 
Everybody knows you; 
Bring along you rabbit's foot 
Drive away hoodoo," 

There's a blur of a landscape flying, 

There's a dream of a sky stained blue; 
There's 2 widening breach as the field guns screech 

And the firing line slides through. 
Oh, the convent bells are ringing 

In a fervent, broken prayer; 
And aching throats re-echo the notes 

When the band strikes up the air: 

" When you hear them bells go ling-ga-ling. 
All join hands and sweetly we will sing; 
When the verse am through the chorus all join in 
There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night!" 

Oh, the boats are long in harbor 
And the guns have gathered rust; 

And those who stayed and were tenderly laid 
With a prayer; are " dust to dust." 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



"AUGUST 13 — 98" 

Oh, the forts are silent ruins 
And the shells no longer croon; 

But a memory deep is aroused from sleep 
When the band strikes up a tune: 

" Please, Oh, please. Ok. do not let me fall; 
You're all mine and I love you best of all; 
You must be my man or I'll have no man at all — 
There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night/" 

Oh, the nodding palms still echo 

The tune that the band once plaj^d; 
And the whimpering waves sing to the graves 

Of the men on the grand parade. 
Oh, the convent bells are ringing 

Through the mists of the morning gray, 
And the breezes croon that same old tune 

Which srill floats up from the bay. 



TO THOSE WHO STAY 

\X7" E are nosing out the harbor with the shore-lights 
• " blinking dim. 
And the women in the cabins bow in silent thanks to 

Htm; 
We are slipping down the channel and we'll soon be far 

awa}' — 
Let us drink a toast in parting; drink to those who have 

to stay! 

See the lights fade in the darkness as we're rising to the 

swell; 
Hear the sentries' note o' gladness as they're calling their 

"All's well!" 
But along the shores behind us, watching us who slip 

away, 
Arc the new recruits just landed — are the ones who 

have to stay. 

Oh, the years of foreign service that the army must de- 
mand 

Ere they turn the soldiers homeward to their own be- 
loved land! 

Drink a toast to them in parting as the transport swings 
away — 

For they'll drink to us in future when it's us who have 
to stay I 

104 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



BALLADS OF THE BRAKE BEAMS 



D,g,i,7dT,Google 



A SONG OF THE RAILS 

T 'M roostin' here like a Sbantydeer on a rod the size 

■^ o' a match, 

Wit* an open view on either side an' a box-car floor fcr a 

thatch; 
An' I hopes the " shack " don't find me, fer me face is all 

he could punch 
As I'm beatin' me old friend, James J. Hill, an' eatin' 

his ballast fer lunch I 

Oh, the ground slips by like a river, 
An' me nerves are all a-quiver — 
Fcr I've bin out on a sort o' a bat an' the rail-joints 

sing to me: 

"John Barleycorn! John Barleycorn! 

He's brought you where you are — 

(Clict-clici!) 
You pay his rates an ride the freights 

But never a parlor car. 
John Barleycorn/ John Barleycorn! 

A hundred thousand men 
May play his game, hut end the same 

An' never see home again!" 

Yep, I'm stickin' here like a sort o' a leech an' the iron 

is cold as hate, 
While the 'wind slides t'rough me see-more pants in a 

fashiwi that's sad to state; 
107 



J SONG OF THE RAILS 

Still, it isn't so bad as a passenger deck wit' a spark to 

U^t mc clothes — 
An' I'm goin' scHncwhere, I don't know where, where- 
c«r this freight train goes. 

But the ground bobs up so crazy 
That me mind is somewhat hazy — 
An' I'm hearin' the rail-joints sing a scMig I never have 
heard before: 

"John Barleycorn/ John Barleycorn! 

You may beat Hill an' Gould; 
But John collects what he expects 

An' John is never fooled. 
John BarleycornI John Barleycorn! 

A rare ole soul is he; 
He follows fast from first to last 
■ Wif pals like you ar^ me! " 

So I'm roostin' here cut off from death by about the 

length o' a hair; 
At least I've heard that it's 'dangerous here, but Death 

is cheaper'n fare. 
For I usually has to hasten along wit' a busted statute 

behind — 
An' any cde place will hold me now, from the deck, to 

pilot or " blind." 

Oh, the ground slips by so easy, 

An' me perch is a trifle breezy — 

I reckon I must be gittin' ole when the rail-joints sing 



ogle 



A SONG OF THE RAILS 

"John Barleycorn/ John Barleycorn/ 

The world is filled with woe; 
He follows fast from first to last 

Wherever you may go, 
John. Barleycorn/ John Barleycorn/ 

He rides the rods a' sin — 
You Pay his rates to ride the freights 

An' John will always win/" 



THE SOFTEST TOWN 

A LL o' the wise gays rube it now; 
£1. Harrer an' seed an the good ole plow — 
Kickin' up dust an' a deuce o' a roiv — 
TtttJ Tut! Prosperity! 

Now this is the talk that the Portland Skin 
Give me on towns that he's bin in — 
Steerin' me right as we sat by a tank in the town o' 
Canton, O. 
(A good ole traveler is Portland Skin, 
An' over the world I reckon he's bin — 
An' there isn't a turn or trick o' the road that the Port- 
land Skin don't know.) 

" Listen ! " he says, " When you pick your town, 
Wy the biggest town is the softest town; 
For the little towns is hostile now for guys like you an' 
me. 
Take a good big town wit' the big, wide nights, 
Wit' the clang o' music an' blazin' lights — 
(Oh, the big town growls, but it never bites — 
An' there's prosperity! ") 

" No one works where the bright lights glare. 
An' they're always studyin' a bill-o'-fare ; 
no 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE SOFTEST TOWN 

No one works but the orchestra men an' the taxicab 
drivers — see ? 
It's a big, fat cinch in the big fat towns 
Wit' the open face suits an' the low-down gowns, 
An' they're drinkin' up wine 'till their liver 
drowns — 

That's some pro^erityl " 

This is the talk that the ole time 'bo 
Give me on towns an' he oughta know — 
"Listen I" he says, "Beware o' towns where they're 
raisin' o' grain an' hay! 
Beware o' the coast, me boy," he says; 
" All o' the middle west," he says; 
"For they ain't no suckers out there no more; they're 

all in the towns to-day." 
"Their night work's done by the kerosene lamps — 
They've got no use for the ole time tramps — 
The light o' the sun is the time for work in the Boob- 
Belt country — see? 
Oh, the callous grows in the palm o' the hand ; 
An' the sweat o' the brow, y' must understand 
Is the law o' their lives an' the law o' the land — 
Tut! Tut! Prosperity! " 
" But no one works by electric light 
In the big soft towns where it's always bright; 
No one works but rcformin' gents, an' md)l)e the waiters 
— see? 



THE SOFTEST TOWN 

They's always a nobe o' brass an' drums — 
From the uptown snares an' the downtown slums - 
An' no one cares how the money comes — 
Ain't that proq»erity?" 

All of the wise guys rube it now — 
Harrer an' seed an' the good ole plow; 
Crops at^ children — sweat o' the brow — 
Tut! Tut/ Prosperity/ 



DISTANT SHORES 



T,Google 



THE VOICE FROM HOME 

SOMEONE sticks it in the camp kit; someone hope- 
ful, someone young 
(Let us praise the Youth who travel with the crew!) 
Someone finds it, jarred and jumbled, and it's sometimes 
shy a lung, 
While its voice is rather limpish and askew. 
In the silence of the forests, rifles stacked and campHres 

low; 
Bronzed and bearded faces thoughtful, lighted by the 

dying glow. 
Dear old Death, of iMig acquaintance, browsing some- 
where in the brush — 
Comes a squeaky, squawky, squealing elbowing into the 
hush — 

"Urup! Urup! Br-r-r! 'Stars and Stripes — 'ever' 
Played by Sousa's band — Urup! Br-r! 
For the bz-z-z-z-urup-phonograph. 

Ta-ta-ra-ra-ra-boom-ta-ratty-tat-tat ! " 

A grinding, gritty galloping, a grumbling at the bowels; 
It speaks of seas and cities and of teeming quays and 

boats. 
TTicn changing to another tunc and mun^ling all the 

vowels 



THE VOICE FROM HOME 

It vomits words that bring a sob into unwilling 

throats. 
The slimy silence slides away; the campfire fades from 

view; 
The forest dark is lighted and old Death himself slips 

through. 
The voice metallic jangles on; the thoughtful faces 

yearn, 
While the yawping box leers spiteful as the feeble records 

turn. 



" Blup-blup-br-r-r-r-blong — Asthore — 

Sung by the Queen City-br-r-quartettc — 
For the bz-z-z-urup -phonograph. 

Tr-r-r-Thc night winds are whispering-blong-brr- ! 



Someone sighs a trifle wistful; someone hopeful, s 
young ; 
Someone bums in nervous cadence as a dare. 
Someone growls a trifle roughly as by quick cmoticm 
stung, 
While the halting needle picks a silly air. 
In the silence of the forest, rifles stacked and campfire 

low. 
Growls the gibing voice metallic of the thin^ we used 
to know. 

ii6 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE VOICE FROM HOME 

Oh, it speaks of home and dances; of the jangling city's 

stir — 
And it brings us in the hushes quiet, holy thoughts of 

Her! 

" Br-r-r-r-blung ! Br-r-Forgotten ! 

As sung by Miss Hilda-br-r-urup- Jones — 

For the bz-z-z-zblong-phonograph. 
If a wild wish-blong-be-r-to see and to-bz-z-z-1 " 



"THE STARS JND STRIPES FOREVER" 

A SONG OF THE AMERICAN ARMY INSTRUCTORS IN CHINA 

DO you think we've forgotten the land we love in 
the scent o' the Heavenly Court? 
Us Exiles who work for the Dowager Queen an' rot 

in a Chinese port? 
Do you think that we soldier for love o' the thing or 

the pay that the Chinaman gives — 
(The pay that we're saving by living out here the way 

that the Chinaman lives?) 
Why, the steamers that raft through the Yellow Sea 

can tell of a wabbly band 
That plays but a single old rollicking air when the 

liners are drawing to land. 
Yes, the warboats that slide through the Saffron Mist, — 

and their colors they always dip, — 
Can speak o' a hand making music so sweet when the 

drum major yells, " Let 'er rip I " 

Do you think we've forgotten the land we love, thou^ 

it seems we've been making a trade? 
Why, they play that to welcome the Royal Guard, and 

they play it on dress parade. 
They play it for marching, for flag salute; that swinging, 

oldf ringing old air — 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



"THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER" 

Not playing it, maybe, as Sousa had planned, but the 
accent is soft as a prayer. 

And the Japanese think and the Britishers guess that it 
isn't the music alone 

That caused us to teach to the Dowager's band the air 
that we love as our own. 

It isn't the " Star Spangled Banner," they know, but 
they've seen our L^ation marines 

Salute with a cheer to our pigtailed band that's wonder- 
ing still what it means. 

Do you think we're forgetting the land we love, in the 

glare of the Heavenly Court? 
Us Exiles who're training the Dowager's men and mak- 
ing them think that it's sport? 
Don't you think that the tunc that our bandmen play 

— though it's weak and it sounds rather droll — 
Is a sort of a crying from out of our hearts — and 

an echo frtm out of a soul? 
Do you think we're forgetting the flag we love — who 

are hearing by day and by night 
The rip-roaring, blood-sdrring Sousa parade that's 

played us to many a fight? 
Why, the Yellow Flag some day will dip and wave 

with the brasses cmnmendng to roar, 
And the pigtails will swing to the " Stars and the 

Stripes " as their army goes off to a warl 

"9 



TOOTS M'GANN 

M TALE OF THE CHINESE ARMY INSTRUCTORS 

THE gun-flash splits the morning mist; 
The bugles sing the reveille; 
The sullen dawn is awning on 
Across the hostile Yellow Sea. 

Up from the South marched Toots McGann, 
Chief of the Chinese gunners he ; 

And green and gray the breaking day 
Stole on across the sombre sea. 

Out of the South swung Toots McGann; 

Creaking piece and dumb caisson; 
His men were wet with marching sweat 

As forward went they to the dawn. 

" Dangers threat," a mess^e went 

Into the South to Toots McGann; 

And fast he rode with whip and goad — 
Chinese — but still American! 

A consulate in dire distress; 

A Mongol rout on mischief bent; 
A fate so grim, a hope so slim. 

When to McGann the message went. 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



TOOTS M'GANN 
Mark you! A Chinaman was he 

In oath and act — he took their pay; 
What right he then to take his men 

And go him forth that sombre day? 

Mark you I He took the Empire's gold 
To serve the Dragon flag full well; 

No right at all to heed a call 

Of dire distress, whate'er befell. 

The leagured consulate it heard 

The tramp of men and voices hoarscd; 
The mongol rout set up a shout, 

Not doubting it was reinforced. 

Not doubting Toots McGann had come 
With battery to shell the walls; 

And at their cheer the leagured fear 

That God had failed to heed their calls. 

The leagured consulate it heard 

A voice that rang dear as a bell; 

The clanking guns; an order runs 

Along the wind: "With shrapnel AclU" 

A flash, a flame, a roar and: " Load I " 
As chaff the Mongol rout dispersed ; 

They left their dead — the silly dead ; 

The soul of Toots McGann they cursed I 



TOOTS M'GANN 

Back to the South marched Toots McGrann; 

His slant-eyed men with hearts of mud. 
No fear he had ; his soul was glad — 

He answered to the call of blood 1 

What was his fate? Ah, few may say — 
For few there arc who really can ; 

But it is lore that never more 

Out of the South came Toots McGann. 



D,g,i,7?<iT;Google 



THE YELLOW FLAG 

LATE o' the Sixteenth 'dc^es, sergeant and nine 
years in; 
Now I'm a cavalry captain, hangin' around Tien Tsin. 
Me and McMurtie and Masters, sweatin' an army o' 

Chinks; 
Spreadin' our ga^>el and tactics, teachin, 'em 'Mericap-'' 
kinks. 

Glint o' gold in the western sky; 
That's my crowd a-marchin' by; 
That's my flag a-flappin' there — 
Smallpox rag in the evenin' air; 
Leather faces and crooel eyes — 
Hate a-waitin' a chanst to rise! 

One night on the white sea shore I was setttn' and half 

asleep. 
When the mist rose off of the water and a light come 

over the deep; 
And I seemed to see — / wuz dreamin' — an army ten 

million strong 
That swept the earth lite a cyclone and marched to a 

hangin' gong, 

123 



n„„.,,.G0 



THE YELLOW FLAG 

I seemed to see — / wuz dreamin — a glint as o' gold 

in the sky 
And I saw through the dust the Yellow Flag as the 

army went swingin' by! 

Ninety-two pigtails behind me, rice-catin', mice-eatin' 

rooks; 
H^ I but they savvies me lingo when I takes 'em to task 

wit me dukes. 
Ninety-two pigtails behind; ho, I'm the boss o' the 

bunch ; 
They savvies the port and the shoulder, but never the 

'Merican punch. 

Off on a whiz in Manila, Yang-Tsc-Kiang gets us broke; 
Hundred and fifty he offers, all of us thinks it's a joke. 
Hundred and fifty, commissions, chanst every day for 

to rise— ^ 
Here we are tcachin' the Chinos; same we wuz taught 

to despise I 

/ seemed to see — / wuz dreamin' — the faces I'm seein' 

each day; 
The faces I'm knowin as wooden, like the Joss Gods to 

whom they pray. 
But, say! as I saw 'em — in dreamin' — each face was 

grown hard and crooel — 
And the eyes lit up with a horrid glare as they marched 

to the 'Merican- rule/ 

124 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE YELLOW FLAG 

They marched in the way I've taught 'em; their flags as 

the sunset light — 
And everywhere was a yellow face, but never a sign of 

white! 

Comrades in mess to some Frenchmen, Dutchmen, and 

Japanese, too ; 
Ho! we're the bold tactic teachers, puttin' the Chinamen 

through ! 
Sweatin' 'em, pettin' 'em careful; judicious use o' the 

boot — 
Hf! they don't savvy me lingo, but savvies a punch in 

the snoot! 

Think o' the styles they're a-leamin', fightin' drilled 

into their soul — 
Frenchy and Dutchy and English, 'Merican, Rooshan 

and Pole! 
Hi! what a scramble o' scrappin', something like mixin' 

your drinks — 
But, say! if it comes to a show-down keep your eye on 

the 'Merican Chinks! 

Since the night on the white sea shore I've noticed it 

time and again; 
The slumbering hate and the crooel glare in the eyes o' 

me sleepy mem, 

125 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



THE YELLOW FLAG 

I've watched 'em at drill and their pleasure end always 

I see the glare — 
Don't tell McMurtie or Masters, for they would say 

it ain't therel 
When I see the sunset at evenin' as it's paintin' the western 

sh. 

I thinks when I saw — in my dreamin — the Yellow 
Flag fioatin' byl 

Glint o' gold in the western sky; 
That's my crowd a-marchin' by; 
That's my flag a-flappin' there — 
Smallpox rag in the evenin' air; 
Leather faces and crooel eyes — 
Hate a-waitin' a chanst to riset 

I'm showin' 'em practice not theory; I teach 'em to go 

it alone 
When they're out on the firin' h'ne fightin' each man to 

think for his own, 
Pcrh^s they are backward in Icamin' because they're not 

bred to the guns — 
But wait 'till the next generation, and watch it come 

out in their sons I 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



GHOSTS OF THE DITCH 

A SONG OF THE PANAMA CANAL 

ED and yellow; red and yellow 
Slips the sun into the sea; 
Red and yellow; red and yellow 

Comes a longing over me; 
Comes a longing for the thronging 
And the city's bells ding-donging; 
Comes a longing, longing, longing, 
When the sun hides in the sea — 

Red and yellow; red and yellow 
Slips the sun into the sea. 

You can hear th' whisperin' voices of th' Men who 

: Went Before; 
They are gathered in th' ditches an' they number many 
a score; 

You can hear 'em laughin', jeerin', 
You can hear 'em talkun', sneerin'. 
And their maddening, mocking music cuts us clear unto 
the core. 

You can hear 'em grabbin' shovels, an' they're tumin' 

on th' steam; 
They're undoin' all we done to-day — you hear th' 

whistles scream — 

127 



GHOSTS OF THE DITCH 

You can hear the rocks a-rattlin' 
Like th' music o' a Gatlin' — 
Thejr're thiowin' back what we toc^ out an' chokin' up 

th' stream 1 
You can hear 'cm touchin' glasses as they take a little 

drink; 
They're a-p!edgin' us for Raw Recruits into th' Devil's 
Sink; 

You can hear 'em touchin' glasses 
As they're pledgin' us for asses; 
An' the rattle o' their consciences gives back a golden 

clink I 
They're leagued with General Fever, an' he's leader 

o' th' crew; 
Old Miser Death is second, you can hear him talkin*, 
too; 

You can hear 'em all a-plannin' 
How we're to have our pannin' — 
An' every one a different plan, but any plan will dol 
They're a-dryin' up th' oil cups an' they're pluggin' up 

the wheels, 
(You will notice it to-morrow when you hear the en- 
gine's squeals;) 

You will hear th' voices moanin' 
When th' engine starts to groanin', 
For they're getting their gaunt voices tangled in th' en- 
gine wheels, 

128 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



GHOSTS OF THE DITCH 
They haven't got a single cheer ior Us — the Men Be- 
hind — 
You only hear 'em tellin' how we're deaf, an' dumb, an' 
blind; 

In our footsteps they a-flockin'. 
But you only hear 'em mockin', 
They haven't got a word o' praise nor even a thought 
that's kindl 

You can hear th' jcerin' voices o' the Men Who Went 

Before; 
Th' movements o' the Men Behind exdtes 'em to a 
roar; 

And the wind in ghostly voice 
Pitches high as they rejoice 
When some one drops a shovel an' goes knockin' at their 
door I 

They hover at our elbows as we ^ove The Job along — 
A-swingin' to our coat tails as they try to guide us 
wrong — 

Who dares to think o' stoppin' — 
Who stops to think o' droppin' — 
Th' Strong vrill stay, th' Weak will go back home when 
they belong] 

Red and yellow; red and yellow 
Comes the cheerful morning H^t; 
129 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



GHOSTS OF THE DITCH 

Red and yellow; red and yellow 
Goes the sullen, hostile night; 
And the coolies are awaking — 
Work! Before the sun is baking — 
Ha! \Vho talks of courage shaking 
With the cheerful morning light? 

Red and yellow; red and yellow 
Come the soothing morning light I 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



HOMEWARD BOUND 

WE have left our battered morals in th' Harbor o' 
Despair, 
An' we're sailin' 'cross th' water headed for th' Port 
o' Hope; 
We have cleared th' gloomy headlands that have marked 
th' Cape o' Care, 
An' we've washed our bloomin' conscience with th* 
Soon-Forgotten soap! 

We have lost th' Blues behind us; there's a smile upon 
each face; 
We have dropped th' Homesick Longin' in th' tide 
which flows behind; 
We have left our Debts an' Creditors to them as lost th' 
race. 
An' we're drivin' 'cross th' waters to th' Land o' 
Never Mtnd! 

Th' Lights o' Home! We see 'em bumin' clear an' 
bright ahead. 
An' our hearts arc singin' gaily as we climb th' 
ocean's slope; 
We have left our Cares an' Carin' to be buried with our 
dead — 
An' we've washed our bloomin' conscience in th' 
Soon-Forgotten soap! 
131 



■n„„.,,.G0 



D,g,i,7?<iT,Google 



ogle 



D,g,l,7?<lT,GOOglC 



ogle 



ogle 



3 1 I93B 



i 



r: 



■.Gotit^le 



ogle