“For five campaigns
Did my sweet Lucy know
Each hardship and each toil
We soldiers undergo.
Nor ever did she murmur,
Or at her fate repine,
She thought not of her sorrow,
But how to lessen mine:
In hunger, or hard marching,
Whate’er the ill might be,
In her I found a friend,
Who ne’er deserted me:
And in my tent when wounded,
And when I sickening lay,
Oft from my brow with trembling hand,
She wiped the damps away.
And when this heart, my Lucy,
Shall cease to beat for thee,
Oh! cold, clay cold,
Full sure this heart must be.”