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.
I hiked o'er the hog trails of Jolo,
In the blistering rays of the suns,
As the wild savage wielding his bolo,
Fell beneath the onslaught of our guns.
With a cartridge belt, rifle and knapsack,
I tramped through the wooded ravine,
On a ration of hard tack and bacon,
And a swig from a rusty canteen.
In Mindanao island so dreary,
From Malabang to Hawaiian hill,
Ever faithful though footsore and weary,
I shouldered my Krag for the drill.
On the outpost when night darkened o'er us
A lone vigil I kept through the rain,
And watched for the bloodthirsty Moros,
That prowled through the desolate cayan.
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