OH, you hear a lot these days

Of the automatic ways

That the experts have devised for spillin' gore;

Cycle squadrons, motor vans,

All fixed up on modern plans

For a rapid transit, quick installment war.

Now, that sort of thing may go

When you have a thoughtful foe

Who will stick to graded roads with all his forces,

But when we were boys in blue,

Playing cross-tag with the Sioux,

We were satisfied to get along on horses.

Oh, the horses, sleek and stout

When the squadrons started out,

How they pranced along the column as the bugles blew the "Trot!"

They might weaken and go lame,

But they'd never quit the game,

And they'd bring us back in safety if they weren't left to rot.

When there came a sudden tack

In the travois' dusty track

And we knew the reds were headin' for the timber and the rocks,

With the infantry and trains

Thirty miles back on the plains,

Then the horses were the boys that got the knocks.

Oh, the horses, roan and bay,

Without either corn or hay,

But a little mess o' dirty oats that wouldn't feed a colt;

Who could blame 'em if they'd bite

Through the picket-ropes at night?

When a man or horse is hungry, ain't he bound to try and bolt?

When the trail got light and thin

And the ridges walled us in,

And the flankers had to scramble with their toes and finger-nails,

While the wind across the peaks

Whipped the snow against our cheeks,

Then the horses had to suffer for the badness of the trails.

Oh, the horses, lean and lank,

With the "U. S." on their flank

And a hundred-weight of trumpery a-dangle all around;

How they sweated, side by side.

When the stones began to slide

And they couldn't find a footing or an inch of solid ground.

But they'd stand the racket right

Till the redskins turned to fight

And up among the fallen pines we heard their rifles crack;

Hi!—the three-year vet'rans stormed

While the skirmish lines were formed

At the snub-nosed little carbines that they couldn't fire back!

And the horses, standing there

With their noses in the air—

How they kicked and raised the devil down among the tangled trees!

They didn't mind the shooting,

But they'd try to go a-scooting

When they got a whiff of redskin on the chilly mountain breeze.

Still, I've not a word of blame

For those horses, just the same;

A yelping Injun, daubed with clay, he isn't nice to see.

And I ain't forgot the day

When my long-legg'd Texas bay

Wasn't scared enough of Injuns not to save my life for me.

I was lyin' snug and low

In a hollow full of snow

When the hostiles flanked the squadron from a wooded ridge near by,

And, of course, the boys, at that,

Sought a cooler place to chat,

But they didn't know they'd left me with a bullet in my thigh!

But the redskins understood—

Bet your life they always would!—

And they came a-lopin' downward for this short-hair scalp of mine,

While I wondered how I'd be

"Soldier a la fricassee,"

For I didn't know my Texan hadn't bolted with the line,

Till I heard a crunchin' sound,

And when I looked around,

With the reins against his ankles, there that blaze-face rascal stood!

He was shiverin' with fright,

But he hadn't moved a mite,

For he'd never learned to travel till I told him that he should.

And he stayed, that Texan did,

Till I'd crawled and rolled and slid

Down beside him in the hollow and the stirrup-strap could find,

And I somehow reached the saddle

And hung on—I couldn't straddle—

While he galloped for the squadron with the Sioux strung out behind.

Oh, the horses from the range,

They've got hearts; it isn't strange

If they raise a little Hades when the drill gets hot and fast;

But I'd like to see a chart

Of the automobile cart

That will save a man on purpose when the shots are singin' past.

Now, the boys in blue, you bet,

Earn whatever praise they get,

But they're not the only ones who never lag,

For the good old Yankee horses,

They are always with the forces

When the battle-smoke is curling round the flag!

And I don't believe the men

Who make drawings with a pen

Can ever build a thing of cranks and wheels

That will starve and work and fight,

Summer, winter, day or night.

Like that same old, game old horse that thinks and feels.

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