Stood a gunner brave and ready
For the hated enemy.

Near the Isles of Philopena
Raged the battle all the morn,
And the plucky Spanish sailors
By the shot and shell were torn;
And the flag that floated o'er them
To oblivion was borne.

Every cannon belched projectiles,
Every cannon breathed forth hell,
Every cannon mowed the foeman
From the deck into the swell,
When amid the din of battle
Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.

"Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!"
Cried the gallant Commodore.
"After eating we will let them
Have a rousing old encore.
Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;
Let the cannon cease to roar."

Then upspake the fighting gunner:
"Dewey, don't, I beg of you.
What's the use of drinking coffee
Till we've put this scrimmage through?
If there's any one who's hungry,
Won't this Spanish omelet do?

"Farragut would not have done it
When through Mobile Bay he sped.
Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast
Till we've plunked 'em full of lead?
Let our motto be as his was--
_Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!_"

_THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY_

"COME here," said I, "oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps
You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,
Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?

"Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag
While others speed the festive ball o'er valley, hill, and crag?
And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?

"I've watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o'er the fact
That you are so attentive to the game; your every act
Doth indicate perfection--there's been nothing you have lacked.

"And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem--
In all my golfing days you've been the very brightest gleam--
Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?"

"Oh, sir," said he, "I caddy here because I love my pa;
I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;
In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:

"'Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport
Came in the portals of our home--home of the sweetest sort;
When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.

"My father first he took it up, and many a weary night
My mother with us children waited up by candle-light,
In hopes that he'd return and free u