Songs and Poems of the Soldier
Artillery Caisson Song
I
Over hill, over dale,
As we hit the dusty trail–
And the caissons go rolling along—
In and out, hear them shout,
Countermarch! And Right about!
And those caissons go rolling along.
II
Oh, it’s Hi! Hi! Hee! For the Field Artilleree!
Shout out your numbers loud and strong!
Where’re you go–you will always know
That the caissons are rolling along.
(Shouted) KEEP THEM ROLLING!
That the caissons are rolling along.
Battery, HALT!
III
Through the storm, through the night,
Action left and action right–
And the caissons go rolling along.
Limber front, limber rear,
Prepare to mount, you cannoneer!
And those caissons go rolling along.
Army Stew
(Tune: "Long Boy")
It is just a bowl of army stew–
When the cook has nothing else to do
He takes a hunk of army beef,
Some rubber heels and cabbage leaf:
Now, it is rich and it is hot–
And it always goes to the same old spot–
But when they get it every day,
You hear those Buddies sayy:
Chorus:
Good-bye ma, good-bye pa,
Good-bye mule, with your old hee-haw!
I may not know how this stew is made,
But you bet, by Gosh! I ain’t afraid.
And, Oh, my sweetheart, if I die
They cannot say that I didn’t try!
For I can swallow what I can’t chew–
And that’s about all one fellow can do.
``````````````````````````````````````````
Back of the Boys
Back of the whining Shrapnel,
Back of the roaring guns,
Back of the combat wagons—
Dragging their vital tons—
Back of the ghostly transports,
Feeling their way o’er the Pond—
The Folks at Home and their Thrift Stamps,
Their hopes and their Liberty Bond.
Back of the gun "Typewriter,"
Pouring its rain of death,
Back of the plunging flyer----
Making you catch your breath—
Back of the aides of Mercy,
Back of the BLESSES saved—
The Folks at Home that Hooverized,
And gave, and gave, and gave.
Back of the homesick "Buddies",
Back of the Fightin’ Man,
The folks Back There who loved him,
And helped him stay a man.
Back of his lonesome hours—
Back of his dreams in the gloam—
The courage they managed to send him,
The letters they wrote him from Home.
SGT. WM. R. MELTON, Battery B
An Army Legend
When good civilians die they go
To Heaven, as a rule.
An old First Sergeant doesn’t die,
But turns into a mule.
He plods along quite faithfully,
Has ne’er a word to say,
And never growls about his "chow,"
Nor kicks about his pay.
Now, should you go a-soldering,
The army is a school,
And lesson one is simply this:
Respect the army mule.
They once were soldiers, like yourself,
These drudges for the wheels;
And lesson two–I’ll whisper it:
Don’t fool around their heels.
Those Life Preservers
They were comforts,
They were beds;
They were pillows
For our heads—
And they fit just like a dromedary’s hump.
Down to the mess, or
On the deck—
Wind protectors
For your neck—
You could play ‘em for an ever-lastin’ trump.
Wear ‘em, tear ‘em,
Give ‘em hell—
Never leave ‘em
For a spell—
As they looked the goods in case of briny jump.
When the Rookie Comes to Camp
Say, but it’s some grand occasion when the rookie comes to camp,
‘Specially when it is raining or the weather’s cold and damp,
And they march in bunch formations, buttoned coats and collars high,
Out of step, but still they’re soldiers, or they will be bye and bye.
Now and then a friend will greet them, rushing up along the line,
Grabs his paw while the rookie comments, "Gee, old boy, yer lookin’ fine,
Camp life sure must be a tonic; when do I get O.D. Clothes?"
Soldier boy says, "Come and see me, I live back o’ here two rows."
In the morning, bright and early, they line up for the exam,
Some are feeling blue and thinking horrid things of Uncle Sam;
But the most of them are happy that they’re given such a chance,
To enjoy the Army training and a trip across to France.
But their courage almost falters when they note the searching eye
Of the so-called "heartless Surgeon," who with helpers standing nigh,
Makes them hop and jump in circles, makes them stand upon their toes,
Listens thru some ear machinery, then explores their throat and nose.
Near by stands a cruel Medic, armed with needle, big and strong,
And with shuddering gaze they size it to be just three inches long.
In he jobs it to the handle, shoots the serum hard and deep,
Finishes the Vaccination, scowling as they squirm and creep.
Thru this troublesome proceeding, their calm minds commence to roam,
And they’d give their best attire to be back again at home,
But they’re roused from meditation by a voice that’s void of sweet,
"Here! Finger prints so they can catch you if you chance to get cold feet."
Then the mustering agent gets them, signs them up for Uncle Sam,
Has them write their names quite often, leads them meekly like a lamb,
Then with thundering voice he asks them, with his pen poised in the air,
"Who will get your surplus money if you get shot over there?"
Yet despite inoculations, they imbibe the bugles’ call
And decide that Army living is not all bad after all;
Three days later they are Veterans, and they hike and march and drill,
Getting in the best condition, to combat old Kaiser Bill.
When a later bunch of rookies comes in straggling, out of step,
Critic eyes gaze from the windows, long-trained voices bark, "Hep, Hep."
Others rush around the corners, shout as they go marching by,
"Say, yer cap is sure a stunner." "Two bits fer yer yaller tie."
Morning finds the rookies standing ‘round the old Vets of a week,
Open mouthed and all attention, drinking in the words they speak,
"S’lute the Cat’n, mind yer Corporal, never kick about yer chow,
Take yer CC pills and quinine, for yer in the Army now."
SGT. M. F. WETZEL, Med. Det.
Sing Me to Sleep
Sing me to sleep when bullets fall,
Let me forget the war and all.
Damp is my dug-out, cold are my feet,
Nothing but "Bully" and biscuit for eat.
Sing me to sleep when bombs explode
And shrapnel helmets are a la mode.
Over the sandbags, mud you will find---
Shell holes before you and shell holes behind.
Sing me to sleep in some old shed,
Where rats are running around my head.
Streched out on my shelterhalf---waterproof!
Dodging the raindrops through the rood;
Dreaming of home and night in the West,
Somebody's overseas boots on my chest.
Far, far from le Guerre I long to be---
The lights of Detroit I would rather see---
Think of me creeping where cooties creep,
Waiting for someone to sing me to sleep.
BEN SOBEL, Battery D
Return of the Soldier
The last flash * * * and the hideous strife
Dies like the wisp of storm-discovered flames;
And so these battered heroes will come back
The same, yet not the same.
They who have landed ward in No Man's Land
Will never be the old and abject crowd,
They will not grovel and they will not stand
What used to keep them cowed.
They will be dumb no longer, they will speak
In tones they learned beneath a blood-red sun,
A constant menace to the cowardly meek
And to all wars to come.
Strengthened to fight what all the world abhors,
Hypocrisy and squalor and disease,
They will attain, even through wars on wars,
What they lost in peace.
-----Literary Digest
Old Messac
Little old Messac, sure we can't forget
The days we spent with you.
You're small and quiet and slow, I know,
But your heart was good and true.
Oh, those swims in the little old river,
And the pumps with the water so clear;
The barber, the girl in the little old store,
With the costume on Sunday so queer!
Our quarters were awful and so were our meals,
But still we have found more and more
We thrive on those meals as bad as they are,
While on the hardest bed we still snore.
[Your Name Here]
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