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Here in South Carolina, On the sandy, piney hills, Near the fields of growing cotton And the busy cotton mills; We soldier boys are training from the wake of reveille, And making preparations For a trip across the sea. We're training in the trenches With the bayonet and gun, And on he rifle ranges for a battle with the Hun. We're standing at attention with a snappy, curt salute, And cleaning for inspection All the guns we have to shoot. No duties we're evading, And we're using strength and skill, While hiking or parading And in every kind of drill. There's nothing we are doing That is done by guess or chance, But strictly for reviewing And way "over there" in France. Beside the pans and dishes, We must wash the dirty duds, Cut the wood and load the wagons, Peel a hundred thousand spuds, Bake the beans and boil the coffee, Cook the parties and the hash, Keep the camp from foul pollution, For we keep it clear of trash. We do some extra duty, And there is no use to kick; For we made a resolution - Bill, the Kaiser's bunch, to lick; But to keep a soldier busy, We are willing to confess, He must hear the payday bugle and the sergeant's call to mess. In fact, he's rather cheerful, and he's never very sad, But cannot keep from thinking Of the batter times he had When a-fishing or a hunting And a pretty girl to see He was living just, as happy As a fellow needs to be. |
