So make way for the web-foot man
    The good U. S. Marines. 
  They need four guides for every man,
    Out in the Philippines.

THE RED GUIDON

  Come, fill up your glasses.  I’ll give you a toast. 
  We’ll drink to the red and the blue,
  The first in the battle, the last from its post,
  Old comrades so faithful and true. 
  Here’s to friends who have passed o’er the last long divide,
  Their spirit is still marching on,
  As it did in the days when we marched side by side
  As we followed the red guidon.

  Chorus: 

  Then here’s to the crossed cannons, they never will run,
  The limber and rolling caisson,
  The clank of the collar and rumble of gun
  As we follow the red guidon.

  We’ve soldiered together, brave hearts ever true,
  We’ve marched, we have fought and we’ve bled
  For the dear old flag with its red, white and blue
  That floats in the breeze overhead. 
  We’ve joked and we’ve laughed around the camp fire’s red glare
  From Cuba to distant Luzon,
  As we told the old stories that drive away care
  ’Neath the folds of the red guidon.

  Come, toss off your tankards, we’ll drink long and deep,
  Brave hearts ever gallant and true,
  To friends who now rest in their long peaceful sleep,
  Who once wore the red and blue. 
  We’ll prove true in the future as they in the past,
  Old comrades of gun and caisson;
  We’ll fight like true soldiers from first to the last
  As we follow the red guidon.

  Chorus: 

  Then here’s to the crossed cannons, they never will run,
  Here’s the limber and rolling caisson,
  The clank of the collar and rumble of gun
  And Hurrah for the Red Guidon!

THE CONSCRIPT

  “Life is real; life is earnest”—­but a Gamble after all,
    “Ten million Conscripts” are answering the Call;
  Ten million men of which I am One—­
    What were the “odds” when “the wheel was spun”? 
  What were the “odds” that Fate would select
    Me for a Conscript—­another reject? 
  Fate was the Gambler; I was a “chip,”
    Death was the “stake” held in Life’s grip;
  I am a Conscript played in Fate’s hand,
    When the Game’s over—­how will I stand? 
  Death, will it lose, or Life, will it win,
    Who’ll be the “winner” at the great “Cash-in”? 
  Ten million Conscripts to answer the Call,
    And at the gusts, the leaves must fall: 
  With submarines launching torpedoes below,
    Which troop ship to atoms are they to blow? 
  Ghosts of disease lurking in camp,
    Spectral sickness in trenches so damp;
  Ten million bullets ripping the air,
    Which Conscript to be stricken, and when and where? 
  Ten million shrapnel shrieking o’er head,
    Which Conscript to reckon