I at the age of 17 was--
Fickle as a clam
I took a train for Fitchburg
And joined old Uncle Sam.
They sent me on to Slocum,
And filled me up on beans.
They made me take a rifle
And a pair of khaki jeans.
They sent me to the Philippines,
We call it no man's land.
We never see a flake of snow,
We bake our eggs in sand,
We hike o'er burning mountains
'Til it drives us near insane,
We pitch our camp in a rice field
In a storm of drizzling rain.
At night we walk our outpost
With a great big heavy gun
And 90 Dum-Dum bullets
To make the Moros run.
They're accurate as a weasel
And, boys, they never fan,
You have to keep your ears pricked up,
For they'll get you if they can.
Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow,
But that notion you'll destroy
If you ever hold your hand up
To be a soldier boy.
You have no dear old Mother.
To mend your tattered pants,
When you stick yourself with a needle,
With rage you'll fairly prance.
So, boys, I found my big mistake,
I was altogether wrong,
And that's the simple reason
I sing this little song.
So take a piece of fool's advice,
And never run away,
Just stay in dear old Gardner
Where life is bright and gay.
DANNY DEEVER BALLAD
"Where're all the soldiers goin' to?" asked Files-on-Parade,
"What are they all a-goin' to do?" the Color Sergeant said;
"I dunno where they're goin' to," said Files-on-Parade,
"I dunno what they're goin' to do," the Color Sergeant said.
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