Marching somewhat out of order 
when the band is cock-a-hoop, 
There's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger 
of the troop, 
Swinging all aboard the steamer with her 
nose toward the sea. 
What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you're foot- 
ing it so free? 

Though his lines are none too level, 
And he lacks a bit of style. 
And he's swanking like the devil 
Where the women wave and smile, 
He will answer with a rifle 
Trim and true from stock to bore, 
Where the comrades crouch and stifle 
In the reeking pit of war. 

What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is 
thunder down the sky, 
And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn- 
ing with its cry, 
While your feet are beating rhythms up the 
dusty hills and down, 
And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow 
of the town. 

Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song the 
kiddies sing, 
Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets 
your heart a-swing? 
Is't the cheering like a paean of the toss- 
ing, teeming crowds, 
Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping 
on the clouds ? 

What's calling, calling, Billy? 'Tis the rattle 
far away 
Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play; 
'Tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the 
smell of seven hells 
When the long ranks go to pieces in the 
sneezing of the shells. 

But your eyes are laughing, Billy, and a 
ribald song you sing, 
While the old men sit and tell us war it is a 
ghastly thing, 
When the swift machines are busy and the 
grim, squat fortress nocks 
At your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks. 

When the horses sweep upon you to complete 
a sudden rout, 
Or in fire and smoke and fury some brave 
regiment goes out, 
War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full well 
you know the rest, 
Yet your heart is for the battle, and your face 
is to the west. 

For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picture 
something worse? 
There's the wrecking of an empire, and its 
broken people's curse; 
There are nations reft of freedom, and of hope 
and kindly mirth, 
And the shadow of an evil black upon the 
bitter earth. 

So we know what's calling, Billy. 'Tis the 
spirit of our race, 
And its stir is in your pulses, and its light is 
on your face 
As you march with clipping boot-heels 
through the piping, howling town 
To uphold the land we live in, and to pull a 
tyrant down. 

Thou his lines are none too level, 
And he's not a whale for style, 
And he's swanking like the devil 
When the women wave and smile 
He will answer with a rifle, 
Trim and true from stuck to bore, 
When the comrades sit and stifle 
In the smoking pit of war.