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American Ballads and Folk Songs
And I hate to put in writing What's running through my mind. We've dug a million trenches And cleared ttn miles of ground, And a tougher place this side of hell I know is yet unfound. But there's still one consolation, Gather, comrades, while I tell: When we die, we're bound for heaven, For we've done our hitch in hell.
We've built a hundred kitchens For our cooks to stew our beansj We've stood a hundred guard mounts, And kept tab on all the scenes j We've washed a million mess kits, And peeled a million spuds j We've rolled a million blankets, And washed a million duds. The number of parades we've made Is surely hard to tell, But we'll now parade in heaven, For we've done our hitch in hell.
We've killed a million rattlesnakes
That tried to take our cots 5
We've shook a million centipedes
From out our army socks;
We've marched a hundred thousand miles,
And made a thousand camps j
We've pulled a million cactus thorns
From out our army pants.
But when our work on earth is done,