"Forward, march!" the left foot first,
The heel down mighty hard,

Your head erect and turned to the left,
As you slyly watch the guard.

Tramp, tramp, three times each day,
Back and forth to our meals,

While the fellow behind, with his "State brogans,"
Scrapes the skin all off our heels.

The visitors in amaze at us gaze
As we march gayly by,

The ladies fair, with many a stare,
Will slyly say, "O my!"

Some "Hayseed" old, with a chronic cold,
Will suddenly say, "I swow!

There goes the man—do you see him Ann?—
What took our brindle cow!"

They say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers,"
And would be worse if we could;

But it's false—we're noble-hearted patriots,
Here for our country's good,

And the honor came to us, you know:
We didn't go to it—

In other words, we were forced here
To "do" our little "bit."

Uncle Sam's domain has been ransacked
For men with blue-blooded veins,

For we don't want any persons here
With any mortal stains.

We are all old sons of Irish lords—
Or at least we'd like to be—

But instead we are only "cons," you know,
Doing time in the great "O. P."