“THE sunlight is yellow and pleasant;
What darkens your spirit, Jem True?”
‘Ay, Sergeant, it’s bright for the present,
And I know it looks mean to be blue,
Squattin’ here, like a draggle-tailed pheasant;
But what’s a poor fellow to do?

“Nary shot since I left the ‘peraties,’
And ‘listed in sarch o’ big game.
It’s a rule that must work by contraries,
That inveigled me on till I came
To this ground without even canaries
Or chippies to warrant an aim.

“Misfortin’ comes crowdin’ misfortin’,
And between ‘em old Jem is nigh beat,
For here comes the news of the sportin’
As has come to them chaps on the fleet;
And, bless yer, they’re greenies for courtin’
The shrews of grim death as they’ll meet.

“Why, there isn’t one cove in a dozen,
For all they’re stout as you’ll see,
As distinguishes well ‘twixt the buzzin’
Of a bullet and that of a bee;
And among ‘em there’s Billy, my cousin–
He shakes ‘on a rest’ like a flea.

“And Toby, though brave as a lion,
His intentions his in’ards confound;
When to jerkin’ the trigger he’s nigh on,
The vartigo bobs him around;
And that bully old sinner, O’Ryan,
He’s cross-eyed, and shoots at the ground.

“While here’s the old boy as can jingle
Any button as shines on a breast,
With a pill as can operate single
At eight hundred yards and ‘no rest;’
He’s left for his cusses to mingle,
Like a eagle what’s glued to his nest.

“‘Twas only last night, when on duty,
A sightin’ then pickets o’ theirs,
That I drew a true head on a ‘beauty,’
With a greasy old coon on his ears.
‘O beautiful varmint! I’ll shoot ye,’
I whispered aloud unawares.

“‘No, you won’t,’ says my comrade, old Dan’l;
‘The orders keep pickets from harm.’
‘Well, I’ll rip up them stripes of red flannel
What so sarcily shine on his arm,’
I pleaded; but ‘No,’ says old Dan’l,
‘The orders keep pickets from harm.’

“Sech orders my heart’s disappointin’–
‘Twasn’t sech as inveigled me in
To clap my mark down to the writin’
The recruiter said glories would win.
O, when fellers is gathered for fightin’,
Say, why can’t the scrimmage begin?

“O, I’m sick of this lazy black river,
Where forever we’re likely to stay.
Why, the Capital’s saved, if it ever
Will be, and it can’t run away!
Can’t we leave it a spell? are we never
To sport in these diggins here–say?

“MUST A COVE as can ring up his twenty
At twelve hundred yards on a ’string,’
Get his hand out when varmints is plenty,
Like a watch-works what hasn’t no spring?
Must a screamer be mum when he’s sent t’ye
In voice for his sweetest to sing?

“I cares not for fierce adversaries,
If for fighting we wasn’t so slow.
O Sergeant! it’s waitin’ that varies
The misery that hangs on me so.
I longs for my darlin’ ‘peraries,’
And that’s why my feeling’s is low.”