Of Camp Supply, decades ago, when Trader reigned as King,
And dear old “Jakey” was “K.O.”–these are the times I sing.
By order every man was told to choose a decent name
For his respective mount–it seemed a very easy game;
But every name, by order, mind, perforce had to begin
With the troops letter, further more be neatly done on tin,
And nailed, each in it’ s proper place, above the horses stall–
A kind of faddish loyal brand, and that was just ‘ bout all.
Now C Troop chanced to be my own, and ‘ twas as mixed, no worse,
Than any modern country club within this universe.
There were a few without reproach, who early won my heart;
But all the rest were rot to core, from every loathsome part.
Yes; every type and every race, except the African.
And every tongue and every creed since this old world began,
And every shape and every age and every kind of size,
Was hashed into this poor old troop, by chance–or otherwise.
But every blessed one of them from latest “rookey” up,
Would rather fight than eat or play, or fill the old tin cup.
So why should I, a lowly “sub.”, disturb myself at all?
Orthography is not a cut, nor thrust, nor wheel, nor call
And if this biped potpourri should show it couldn’ t spell,
Well! Andrew Jackson, it is claimed, wrote hell with one lone l.
A few days later, “Stables” went, and with it I went, too;
A triffle curious to behold the strange tin-tinted view.
I felt quite proud when names like “Cinch,” “Cochise,” and “Chip,” I read,
And surely “Cribber,” “Chevron” spoke of “gray stuff” in the head,
But when I came to “Collicky,” “Capsule,” and “Cuspadore,”
And “Chew,” and “Chnapps,” and “Concubine,” why should I care for more?
I must admit there were some names for cleverness and cheek,
Quite capable of knocking out a Roman or a Greek;
But these were pulled and burnt at once, so none may ever learn,
How many Smollets, Swifts and Sues were in that troop in turn.
Just then I spied two men engaged in quite a lively fight,
Their currycombs were used on each other with accur’ cy and might.
Hans went for Pat, and Pat for Hans, till Sayles with punches two,
Sent each through air to seperate stalls, with eyes both black and blue.
My inquiry to learn just why the men should take that time,
Brought forth the sergeant’ s quaint reply, which I’ ll attempt in rhyme:
“The name ‘ Cubeb’ on O’ Flynn’ s tin was printed that way,
When Switzner come along and said the word begun with K,
Then one word, as you know, Loot’ nunt, leads to another quick,
And I can’ t say which one it was who giv the saynoir lick,
They both feel much raymorseful now, for every kiote knew
Each man was wrong, because cubeb is only spelled with Q.”
E. L. K.