Rookie rhymes, by the men of the 1st and 2nd provisional training regiments, Plattsburg, New YorkPlattsburgh Barracks (N.Y.)
History
Rookie rhymes, by the men of the 1st and 2nd provisional training regiments, Plattsburg, New York
Plattsburgh Barracks (N.Y.)
American poetry -- Collections; World War, 1914-1918 -- Poetry
"And there I fought an evil thought
And won--and turned to go;
Then as I went into my tent
A bullet struck me low."
The others heard and spoke no word
(For dead men understand),
But 'round they turned and their deep eyes burned
As they gripped his leaden hand.
TO THE LITTLE BLACK DOG
We see you in the morning
When Reveille implores;
We meet you in the evening
At end of daily chores.
On march, fatigue, or drilling
Our friend we find you still,
With kindly, pleasant bearing
And independent will.
You're small, you're thin, you're homely,
You're battered, scratched, and lame;
But in our tasks before us
Pray God we be as game!
[Illustration]
WHEN EAST IS WEST
See that man in khaki clothes,
Squirming in the dust;
Toying with a sketching board,
Uniform all mussed.
Squinting 'long a little stick,
Grunting fit to bust--
Turning out a road sketch
For his Captain.
First he drills a "starting point."
Then he takes a "shot;"
Someone's scare-crow gets a line,
Closes Jones's lot.
Paces stiffly down the road,
Worried--tense--and hot--
Turning out a road sketch
For his Captain.
Now an "intersection point;"
Watch the compass turn.
Think to see him finger it
Bloomin' thing would burn.
Missed an inch by motor truck;
Eyes it proud and stern--
Turning out a road sketch
For his Captain.
Plants an orchard in the road;
Leaves a forest bare.
Runs a railroad through a house;
Fakes a village square.
Twenty contours in a swamp,
Thirteen in the air--
Calls the thing a road sketch
For his Captain.
TO MY SWEETHEART
I love you when the bugle
Calls, "Awake, the day's begun!"
I love you as we work and
Sweat and drill beneath the sun.
I love you at retreat, and
When the sun sinks out of view;
Sweetheart of mine! quite all the time,
I--love--you.
PLAY THE GAME
When everything goes wrong
And it's hard to force a song,
The proper stunt we claim,
Is to grin, and play the game.
If things break worse than fair,
Say the Frenchmen, "_C'est la Guerre_."
Which to them is just the same,
As to grin, and play the game.
If you find the mess is punk--
Kidney beans and other junk--
Try to eat it just the same;
Stretch a grin, and play the game.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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