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Title: Pay Day
Author: W. E. Christian [
More Titles by Christian]
Oh, it's early in the morning,
The mules begin to squeal,
You hear the cooks a'bangin' pans
To get the mornin' meal;
The Bugler, sort o' toodlin,
Outside the Colonel's tent,
And you kind o' feel downhearted,
'Cause your last two bits is spent.
With a leggin-string you're fussin'
When the band begins to play,
And you listen, and stop cussin',--
What is that the bugles say?
Oh, it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day,
And the drums begin to roll,
And they sure do carry music
To the busted Johnnie's soul.
Some think about the girls they'll get,
And some, about the beer;
Some say they'll send their money home,
And all begin to cheer.
The games will soon be goin'
Snap your fingers at the dice;
With the canteen spigots flowin'
'Til the Barkeep's out of ice.
For it's pay-day, pay-day, pay-day;
Can't you hear the bugles call?
The privates and the Non-Coms,
The officers and all
Have been waitin', waitin', waiting
'Til they're broke or badly bent
For the coins stacked up on blankets
And table in a tent.
Fifteen dollars in the mornin'
By the evenin' in the hole;
And "Private Jones is absent, Sir."
When the Sergeant calls the roll.
The officers are lookin' up
The "Articles of War";
There's sixteen in the guard-house,
And the Provost has some more.
[The end]
W. E. Christian's poem: Pay Day
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