Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails bid, And I know I haven’t the polish that fellows like that will show, And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West Point kid, But I think I can make him hustle when it comes to the work I know. But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, or the Guard, This isn’t a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought and won; There’s a serious job before us, a job that is huge and hard, And the social register don’t count until we’ve got it done!
Twenty years in the army, And now I’ve got my chance. Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch the chaps That I’ve trained for the game in France!
Flag of our Faith: lead on-- Across the sand-blown plain, The deep and trackless main, When duty’s trumpets blow, Where frowns the freeman’s foe, And right crushed to the sod Lifts soul to righteous God. Flag of our Faith: lead on--
Flag of our Hope: lead on-- When stormy clouds hang low And chilling north-winds blow And days are long and drear. When nights breed grief and fear; A rainbow lights the sky Whene’er its colors fly. Flag of our Hope: lead on--
Flag of our Love: lead on-- In loyal hearts supreme, Fairer than love’s first dream, Our first choice and our last, Brightened by every blast. Oh, emblem pure and sweet, Thou can’st not know defeat. Flag of our Love: lead on--
Flag of our Home: lead on-- Beneath thy folds we rest, We live and love our best, The fairest roses blow, The richest harvests grow, And care-free children play And gladden every day. Flag of our Home: lead on--
Flag of our Faith, our Hope, our Love, Flag of our Home, wave on above. We’ll live, we’ll fight, we’ll die for you-- Flag Everlasting, Red, White and Blue.
Here’s to the Blue of the wind-swept North, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of Grant be with you all As the sons of the North advance.
And here’s to the Gray of the sun-kissed South, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of Lee be with you all As the sons of the South advance.
And here’s to the Blue and the Gray as one, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of God be with us all As the sons of the Flag advance.
I hear the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric rain: The Afric spring is breaking, down in Senegal again. O little town in Senegal, amid the clustered gums, Where are your sturdy village lads, who one time danced to drums? At Soissons, by a fountain wall, they sang their melodies; And some now lie in Flemish fields, beside the northern seas; And some tonight are camped and still, along the Marne and Aisne; And some are dreaming of the palms that bend in Afric rain. The music of the barracks half awakes them from their dream; They smile and sink back sleepily along the Flemish stream. They dream the baobab’s white buds have opened over-night; They dream they see the solemn cranes that bask in morning light: I hear the great drums beating in the square across the plain. Where are the tillers of the soil, the gallant, loyal train? O little town in Senegal, amid the white-bud trees, At Soissons, in Picardy, went north the last of these!