He ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,"
To sparkle in the
sun;
He don't parade with gay cockade,
And posies in
his gun;
He ain't no "pretty soldier boy,"
So lovely,
spick and span,--
He wears a crust of tan and dust,
The Regular Army man;
The marching, parching,
Pipe-clay starching,
Regular 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 temperance advocate,
He likes to fill the can,
He's kind of rough, and, maybe, tough,
The Regular Army
man;
The r'aring, tearing,
Sometimes swearing,
Regular 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 don't cut any ice at
all
In Fashion's social plan,
He gets the job to face
a mob,
The Regular Army man;
The milling, drilling,
Made for killing,
Regular Army man.
There ain't no
tears shed over him
When he goes off to war,
He gets
no speech nor prayerful preach
From mayor or governor;
He packs his little knapsack up
And trots off in the van,
To start the fight and start it right,
The Regular Army
man;
The rattling, battling,
Colt or Gatling,
Regular Army man.
He makes no fuss about the job,
He don't talk big or brave,
He knows he's in to fight and
win,
Or help fill up a grave;
He ain't no Mama's
darling, but
He does the best he can,
And he's the
chap that wins the scrap,
The Regular Army man;
The
dandy, handy,
Cool and sandy,
Regular Army man. |
