They showed me good looking chromos of good looking soldier men,
  With little V’s upon their sleeves and hats they shone like tin;
  But there is one uncanny picture they never to me showed
  Of a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting up the road—­
    In the U. S. Army.

  They told me of the nice soft bunk, made out of woven wire,
  Where I could lay my carcass, whenever my bones would tire;
  But a whisper of the pick and shovel was never to me told,
  So I’m pondering o’er my contract, and I think I was sold—­
    When I came into Uncle’s Army.

  They told me of the non-coms, who knew a soldier’s worth,
  Who made the Army jolly, a place of endless mirth;
  But not a word they told me of the amount of beer I’d buy,
  Just to keep a “stand in” with those that rank up high—­
    In Sammy’s splendid Army.

  They told me of the bill-of-fare that changed with every day,
  And when landed in the Army for thirty years I’d stay;
  But not a word they told me (No wonder they were mum),
  About the stuff they feed us, commonly known as “Slum”—­
    In our conquering Army.

  It is hinted that experience of all others is the school,
  Where common sense alone is learned, by him that plays the fool;
  And though I hate the medicine, I must take it with a will,
  And keep convincing myself, it does me good—­
    It’s time to leave the Army.

ARMY FEVER

  When your first hitch is over, and you have cashed your finals few,
  And a breakfast and a boat ride are all that’s left for you,
  And you toy with your collar as you don your suit of “citz,”
  While your bunkie, sitting near you, has the bluest kind of fits;
  You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the thoughts of going out;
  The friends at home will welcome you, of that there’s not a doubt;
  And it never seems to strike you that you have made a beaten track,
  In these years you’ve been a soldier—­that you might come back. 
  So you hasten out as boat call goes—­last call you have to stand—­
  And you wave farewell to comrades as you push away from land. 
  First call for drill is sounding from the bugler’s throat of gold,
  But you are free—­“don’t have to stand no drill in heat or cold.” 
  Altho’ you get to wondering as things fade from sight,
  If drilling really was so bad as walking post at night. 
  You think, of course, when first discharged, one feels just sort of sad;
  But it’s Army fever symptoms—­And you’ve got ’em bad. 
  You’re in business on the outside, and you’re making good, it seems;
  But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling through your dreams. 
  Then some day you meet a soldier on a furlough for a week;
  And you think it only friendly to go up to him and speak;
  And you find you knew his brother, or his cousin, or his friend,
  And your job upon the outside has found a sudden end;
  For a longing fierce comes over you, and you cannot resist—­
  It’s the crisis of the fever—­and you reenlist.