They sent me to the Philippines, We call it no man's land. We never see a flake of snow, We bake our eggs in sand, We hike o'er burning mountains 'Til it drives us near insane, We pitch our camp in a rice field In a storm of drizzling rain. At night we walk our outpost With a great big heavy gun And 90 Dum-Dum bullets To make the Moros run. They're accurate as a weasel And, boys, they never fan, You have to keep your ears pricked up, For they'll get you if they can. Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow, But that notion you'll destroy If you ever hold your hand up To be a soldier boy. You have no dear old Mother. To mend your tattered pants, When you stick yourself with a needle, With rage you'll fairly prance. So, boys, I found my big mistake, I was altogether wrong, And that's the simple reason I sing this little song. So take a piece of fool's advice, And never run away, Just stay in dear old Gardner Where life is bright and gay. DANNY DEEVER BALLAD "Where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "What are they all a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "I dunno where they're goin' to," said Files-on-Parade, "I dunno what they're goin' to do," the Color Sergeant said. For they're goin' back towards U. S. A. and leave the Philippines, They're tirin' of the Islands and the Army "pork and beans," That "single time," and "two per mile"--they all know what that means-- So now they're all a'goin' to leave the Army. "Where is the 'Doughboy' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "Back to his farm! Back to his farm!" said Files-on-Parade, "Behind the plow! Behind the plow," the Color Sergeant said. No hiking o'er rice paddies,--but furrowed fields of corn, To go to bed real early and get up in the morn', To be his own "K. O." once more, in the country where he's born, So soon he'll be a-quittin' of the Army. "Where is the Trooper goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "Perhaps he'll pack an Army mule," said Files-on-Parade, "Or go out West to 'cow-boy,'" the Color Sergeant said. He's fond of his "caballo," and he loves his old "outfit," And if they'd change those Army bills, he wouldn't ever quit, But Chairman Hay, and others, have forced him into it. So soon he'll be discharged from out the Army. "Where is the 'Gunner' goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade, "And what is he a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said; "He's goin' to be a 'jackie,'" said Files-on-Parade, "A sailor lad a'fore the mast," the Color Sergeant said. For he'd rather try the Navy, and draw a sailor's pay, Than "single-time" in Jolo with three long years to stay, Where there ain't no "two-cent mileage," while a'cruisin' across the Bay, So now he'll soon be quittin' of the Army.