The other day I chanced to meet a soldier friend of mine.
He'd been in camp for sev'ral weeks and he was looking fine.
His muscles had developed and his cheeks were rosy red.
I asked him how he liked the life and this is what he said:
Oh! How I hate to get up in the morning.
Oh! How I'd love to remain in bed.
For the hardest blow of all, is to hear the bugler
call;
"You've got to get up, you've got to get up, you've
got to get up in the morning!"
Some day I'm going to murder the bugler,
Some day they're going to find him dead.
I'll amputate his reveille, and step up on it heavily,
And spend the rest of my life in bed.
A bugler in the army is the luckiest of men,
He wakes the boys at five and then goes back to bed again.
He doesn't have to blow again until the afternoon.
If ev'rything goes well with me I'll be a bugler soon.
Oh! How I hate to get up in the morning.
Oh! How I'd love to remain in bed.
For the hardest blow of all, is to hear the bugler
call;
"You've got to get up, you've got to get up, you've
got to get up in the morning!"
Oh boy the minute the battle is over,
Oh boy the minute the foe is dead.
I'll put my uniform away, and move to Philadelphia,
And spend the rest of my life in bed.
