THE OL’ CAMPAIGN HAT
No more against a battle sky with swooping pilots lined,
No more where charging heroes die my peakéd top you’ll find.
In training camps and peaceful climes the war is not for me,
Yet still I dream of other times and what I used to be.
The Mauser crackles once again—the smoky Springfield roar
Avenges those who manned the Maine upon the Cuban shore.
Fedora-style I did my bit in jungle sun and dirt,
And now I’ve got a mortal hit, just like the old blue shirt!
I hear the tingling ’Frisco cheers, the squat “Kilpatrick” sway,
As boldly swung we from the piers, Manila months away.
Luzon, Panay—I saw them all, Pekin was not the least—
O I have felt the siren call that sweeps from out the East.
Below the line of Capricorn in divers times and places
I’ve heard retreating yowls of scorn from herds of Spiggot races.
The Rio Grande and Vera Cruz—I knew them like a map,
And now it looks as though I lose—the jackpot to a cap!
No more against a blazing sky where hard-pressed Fokkers flee,
No more where charging heroes die, my peakéd top you’ll see.
The trade mark of the Johnnie’s gone, but, just between us two,
I’ll bet you I come back again when this damn war is through!