One may part from the Orient gladly,
    From its garlic and dhobie and goats;
  But if he’s once got the scent of the cocoa
    As he sits and in reverie dotes,—­
  His thoughts will revert to the eastward,
    To the land of yellow and brown
  And he sighs for the scent of the cocoa,
    And the sight of a pina gown.

MEN OF THE HOSPITAL CORPS

  They, too, have heard the drum-beat,
  They follow the bugle’s call,
  Those who are swift with pity
  On the field where brave men fall.

    When the battle boom is silent
    And the echoing thunder dies,
    They haste to the plain, red sodden
    With the blood of sacrifice.

  The flag that floats above them
  Is marked with a crimson sign,
  Pledge of a great compassion
  And the rifted heart divine.

      And so they follow the bugle
    And heed the drumbeat’s call,
      But their errand is one of pity:—­
    They succor the men who fall.

GARRISON LIFE

  I want to go home, wailed the private,
  The sergeant and corporal the same,
  For I’m tired of the camp and the hikin’,
  The grub and the rest of the game. 
  I’m willing to do all the fightin’,
  For that is a game two can play;
  But I want to go home, for me goil’s all alone,
    An’ I want to go home to-day.

  For I’ve marched ’til me throat was a-crackin’,
  ’Til crazed for the want of a drink,
  I’ve drilled ’til me back was a-breakin’,
  An’ I haven’t had time to think. 
  And I’ve had me share of policin’,
  And guard and I’m tired of me lay;
  For me goil’s all alone, an’ I want to go home,
    An’ I want to go home to-day.

  Do they heed us a-dying in garrison life? 
  They say it’s the water and such,
  We think that more apt it’s the hikin’,
  For the life of a private ain’t much;
  But we know we can fight if we have to,
  And they won’t have to show us the way,
  But me goil’s all alone, an’ I want to go home,
    An’ I want to go home to-day.

THE PHILIPPINITIS

  My friend, have you heard of the town of Manila,
  On the banks of the Pasig River,
  Where blooms the wait-awhile flower fair,
  And the “some time other” scents the air,
  And the soft-go-easy grow? 
  It lies in the Valley of What’s-the-use,
  In the province of Let-her-slide. 
  That old tired feeling is native there,
  It’s the home of the listless I don’t care. 
  Where the Put-it-off abide.

  The East is a’calling

  They say that the East is alluring;
    The balmy green isles of the sea. 
  But with all their wild splendor assuring,
    They have no fascination for me.

  I camped with the boys at Siassi,
    Way down in that sequestered isle,
  Where the garb of a primitive lassie,
    Was naught save a gee string and smile.