Oh! isn't her blush like the roses? And aren't her eyes like the stars? And whenever she smiles Don't you think you are miles From the rattle and roar of the wars? Would you take the three stars of a general If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?” Oh! we've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses, But hers are the sweetest that be.
Her name may be Ahlo or Nina, Or Zanez or Lalamaloo; She may smoke the cigars Of the chino bazars, And prefer black maduros to you; She may speak a wild six-cornered lingo, And say that your Spanish is queer, But you'll never mind this When she gives you a kiss And calls you her “zolshier poy dear.”
Oh! isn't her blush like the roses? And aren't her eyes like the stars? And whenever she smiles Don't you think you are miles From the rattle and roar of the wars? Would you take the three stars of a general If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?” Oh! I've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses, But her's are the sweetest for me!
As in the first pale flush of coming dawn We see a promise of the glorious sun, So in the violet's misty blue is drawn A shadowy likeness of the days to be, The days of cloudless skies and poesie, When Winter's done.
The small gunboats captured from the Spaniards and facetiously called “tin-clads” by the men of the land forces, are of great value in the offensive operations against the insurgents along the coast.—[MANILLA DISPATCH]
_Their draft is a foot and a half, And a knot and a half is their speed, Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt And their boilers are wonders of greed; Their rudders are always on strike, Their displacement is thirty-two tons, They are armored with tin—to the dishpan they're kin— But their Maxims are A number ones, (Ask Aggie!) Their Maxims are murderous guns!_
When from out the towns and villages, and out the jungle, too, We have chased the Filipinos on the run, Toward the river swamps they foot it—towards the swamps we can't go through— And we're doubtful if we've lost the fight or won; Then when all are safe in hiding in the slimy mud and reeds, From the river 'cross the swamp we hear a sound; It's the sputter and the rattle of the automatic feeds On the tin-protected cruisers—how they pound— (Sweet sound!) They that save us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers! Hear their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!