  That republics are ungrateful, Is adage old as sin; That only he who has a pull Can rake the chestnuts in; And he, the faithful, honest heart, Who meekly bears his humble part, Is often dubbed a fool. Oh, Dewey gets a mighty praise, And everywhere they shout And yell for Schley until they raise Their very livers out; Of rank and file much praise is heard, But then you never hear a word About the Army Mule. He calmly bears his heavy pack, And twists his tail in glee; And chews at night a “gunny” sack, When corn has “gang a-glee”; But for his patient, loving ways No annals speak a word of praise Of that poor Army Mule. He nobly marched where bullets fell, With calm and even tread; And when he heard the bursting shell, He only shook his head; And at his post he nobly stood To help the boys what e’er he could, That faithful Army Mule. ’Neath burning sun of Cuba’s isle, He brought the train along, To furnish Shatter’s men the while They sang the “rifle song”; And but for him supplies were vain; They must be brought through sun and rain, By that same Army Mule, In Luzon where the Army moves, The festive Mule is nigh; Too slow the pokey carabao proves, For Yankee soldiers fly; In heat or cold, in wet or dry, In mud or dust, they can rely On the true Army Mule. He brings relief to sick and well, When other sources fail; His worth the soldier cannot tell, His glory shall not pale; And here a monument we raise, A tribute to the worthy praise Of the American Mule. But first and foremost of them all, In duty or in danger; With biggest ears and loudest call, And to fatigue a stranger; The first on Santiago’s brow, And in Luzon the friskiest now: Oh, that’s the Missouri Mule. —W. S. Platt. |
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