He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere," To sparkle in the sun; He don't parade with gay cockade, And posies in his gun; He ain't no "pretty soldier boy," So lovely, spick and span,-- He wears a crust of tan and dust, The Regular Army man; The marching, parching, Pipe-clay starching, Regular Army man. He ain't at home in Sunday-school, Nor yet a social tea, And on the day he gets his pay He's apt to spend it free; He ain't no temperance advocate, He likes to fill the can, He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough, The Regular Army man; The r'aring, tearing, Sometimes swearing, Regular Army man. No State'll call him "noble son," He ain't no ladies' pet, But, let a row start anyhow, They'll send for him, you bet! He don't cut any ice at all In Fashion's social plan, He gets the job to face a mob, The Regular Army man; The milling, drilling, Made for killing, Regular Army man. There ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off to war, He gets no speech nor prayerful preach From mayor or governor; He packs his little knapsack up And trots off in the van, To start the fight and start it right, The Regular Army man; The rattling, battling, Colt or Gatling, Regular Army man. He makes no fuss about the job, He don't talk big or brave, He knows he's in to fight and win, Or help fill up a grave; He ain't no Mama's darling, but He does the best he can, And he's the chap that wins the scrap, The Regular Army man; The dandy, handy, Cool and sandy, Regular Army man. WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN GUY WETMORE CARRYL [Sidenote: August 20, 1898] _A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, Sampson's fleet came into New York harbor._ To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free; And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry, each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home! And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!"