He makes no fuss about the job,
He do'n't talk big or brave,--
He knows he's in ter fight and win,
Or help fill up a grave;
He ain't no "Mama's darlin'," but
He does the best he can,
And he's the chap that wins the scrap,
The Reg'lar Army man;
The dandy, handy,
Cool and sandy,
Reg'lar Army man.

* * * * *

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

A cloud of cinder-dotted smoke, whose billows rise and swell,
Thrust through by seething swords of flame that roar like blasts from hell;
A floor whose charring timbers groan and creak beneath the tread,
With starting planks that, gaping, show long lines of sullen red;
Great, hissing, scalding jets of steam that, lifting now, disclose
A crouching figure gripping tight the nozzle of a hose,
The dripping, rubber-coated form, scarce seen amid the murk,
Of Fireman Mike O'Rafferty attending to his work.

Pressed close against the blistered floor, he strives the fire to drown,
And slowly, surely, steadfastly, he fights the demon down;
And then he seeks the window-frame, all sashless, blank and bare,
And wipes his plucky Irish face and gasps a bit for air;
Then, standing on the slimy ledge, as narrow as his feet,