No matter how wise or how foolish The company’s cook may be, When down at the table we’re seated, Two things we all plainly can see; When we look at the chow There’s the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. If quartered in city or country, The cook never misses his aim; If messing in swamp or on mountain, Two things will remain quite the same; Though it may cause a row, We get bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. When tasks for the day are all ended, And weary are body and brain, Small matter it makes if we’re eating Indoors, or outside in the rain, The cook makes his bow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. Of all that I’ve learned in the Army, This fact I am sure I know well— And others are certain to tell you— The soldier’s worst picture of hell Is thrice daily chow With the bosom of sow, And beans—beans—beans. VANCE C. CRISS, Corp., Engrs. TO THE WEST WIND West Wind, you’ve come from There, Surely my Girlie Breathed in your truant air— Did you kiss my Girlie? Seemed then a-sleeping she, As you passed merrily? Whispered she aught of me, Dreaming full tenderly? West Wind, turn back your speed; Blow to my Girlie! Turn back, you wind, and heed— Hie to my Girlie! Elfin-like seeming, Close to her hover; Into her dreaming Say that I love her. WILLIAM S. LONG, Corp., A. S. THE DRIVER I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my off horse, she shines like a countess, And my nigh made the general blink, And they pull like twin bats fresh from Hades, And they’re quick as a demimonde’s wink.