pretty soldier boy,"
So lovely, spick and span,--
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The marchin', parchin',
Pipe-clay starchin',
Reg'lar Army man.

He ain't at home in Sunday-school,
Nor yet a social tea,
And on the day he gets his pay
He's apt to spend it free;
He ain't no temp'rance advocate,
He likes ter fill the "can,"
He's kind er rough, and maybe, tough,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The r'arin', tearin',
Sometimes swearin',
Reg'lar Army man.

No State'll call him "noble son,"
He ain't no ladies' pet,
But, let a row start anyhow,
They'll send for him, you bet!
He "do'n't cut any ice" at all
In Fash'n's social plan,--
He gits the job ter face a mob,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The millin', drilling
Made fer killin',
Reg'lar Army man.

[Illustration: "They ain't no tears shed over him. When he goes off
ter war."]

They ain't no tears shed over him
When he goes off ter war,
He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach"
From mayor or governor;
He packs his little knapsack up
And trots off in the van,
Ter start the fight and start it right,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The rattlin', battlin',
Colt or Gatlin',
Reg'lar Army man.

He makes no fuss about the job,
He do'n't talk big or brave,--
He knows he's in ter fight and win,
Or help fill up a grave;
He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but
He does the best he can,
And he's the chap that wins the scrap,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The dandy, handy,
Cool and sandy,
Reg'lar Army man.

* * * * *

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell,
Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell;
A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread,
With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red;
Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose
A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose,
The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk,
Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown,
And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down;
And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare,
And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air;
Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet,
He hums a tune, and