“’Way down at the Brooklyn navy yard,
       Where ships are rigged for sea,
     Three hundred little ‘heroes’
       Went aboard the old ‘Yankee.’ 
     Oh! we were young and foolish,
       We longed for Spanish gore,
     And so they set us working
       As we never worked before.

CHORUS: 
“Hard-tack and salt-horse every day,
Work, slave, for mighty little pay;
And just before we get to sleep
We hear the bosun pipe like this
(Whistle),
‘Up all hammocks, all hands.’

“They turn us out each morning,
To scrub our working clothes;
To polish guns and bright work,
To ‘light’ along the hose. 
To wash down decks and ladders,
To coil down miles of rope,
To carry coal in baskets,
To live on air and hope.

CHORUS: 
“Hard-tack and salt-horse every day,
Work, slave, for mighty little pay;
And when we think our work is done
We hear the bosun pipe like this
(Whistle),
‘Turn to.’

“Way down at Santiago,
We fit the forts one day. 
The shells were bursting o’er us,
There was the deuce to pay. 
We hid our inclination
To run and hide below,
Because we’re little ‘heroes,’
They’ve often told us so.

CHORUS: 

“Hard-tack and salt-horse every day,
Work, slave, for mighty little pay;
And just as all the fight was over
We heard the bosun pipe like this
(Whistle),
’Gun-deck sweepers, clean sweep fore and aft. 
Sweepers, clean your spit kits.’

“One Saturday we anchored
Just off the Isle of Pines,
To load up with pineapples,
And look for Spanish signs. 
We called away the cutters,
With seamen filled them up,
And captured five small sailboats,
Two Spaniards and a pup.

    CHORUS: 

    “Hard-tack and salt-horse every day,
    Work, slave, for mighty little pay;
    And when we’d like to talk it over
    We heard the bosun pipe this
        (Whistle),
    ‘Pipe down.’”

“That’s great!” said one and all.

“There is just time for the ‘Intermezzo’ before tattoo, ‘Baron,’” said “Pair o’ Pants,” the signal boy.  “Give it to us, will you?”

“Baron” obligingly complied.

The boys lay around in comfortable, though ungraceful, attitudes, a small but appreciative audience.

As the last high note died away the ship’s bugler began that lovely call, “tattoo.”  We listened in silence, for though we had heard it many times, it was always a delight to us.  Then, too, it meant rest (not a drug in the market by any means).  Every ship’s crew in the harbor, at the same moment was listening to the call blown by their own bugler.

The men tumbled below and began to prepare for the voyage to dreamland.

Five minutes later, when the sleepy “taps” sounded, the decks were almost deserted save for the hammocks, which looked like huge cocoons swung horizontally.