r they're dead.

We've lots of men of this kind an'
Of course, we've some that ain't,
We'll cover up their faces
In the picture that we paint.
I'll follow men like you, sir;
You can't go too fast an' far,
You're officers and gentlemen
Like Congress says you are.

I wish I could re-up, sir,
Till you get your silver stars,
I'm sure you'll do them credit, sir,
As you have done the bars.
I know I shouldn't talk so much,
But somehow I'm inclined,
On leavin' the old outfit
Just to speak the company's mind.

PAY DAY

Oh, it's early in the morning,
The mules begin to squeal,
You hear the cooks a'bangin' pans
To get the mornin' meal;
The Bugler, sort o' toodlin,
Outside the Colonel's tent,
And you kind o' feel downhearted,
'Cause your last two bits is spent.

With a leggin-string you're fussin'
When the band begins to play,
And you listen, and stop cussin',--
What is that the bugles say?
Oh, it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day,
And the drums begin to roll,
And they sure do carry music
To the busted Johnnie's soul.

Some think about the girls they'll get,
And some, about the beer;
Some say they'll send their money home,
And all begin to cheer.
The games will soon be goin'
Snap your fingers at the dice;
With the canteen spigots flowin'
'Til the Barkeep's out of ice.

For it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day;
Can't you hear the bugles call?
The privates and the Non-Coms,
The officers and all
Have been waitin', waitin', waiting
'Til they're broke or badly bent
For the coins stacked up on blankets
And table in a tent.

Fifteen dollars in the mornin'
By the evenin' in the hole;
And "Private Jones is absent, Sir."
When the Sergeant calls the roll.
The officers are lookin' up
The "Articles of War";
There's sixteen in the guard-house,
And the Provost has some more.

THE ARMY GROUCH

When the Grouch gets up at reveille,
He puts his elbow on his knee;
His head upon his hand;
And tho' he's slept ten hours or more,
His back is weak, his feet are sore,
And he can hardly stand.
And, as he goes to get his chow,
He says, "By Gosh!--I don't see how
A soldier lives so long.
The spuds is rotten and the slum
Is always worse than on the bum.
The coffee is too strong.
That cow was killed ten years before
They organized this bloomin' war;
These flapja