My love reposes in a rosewood frame;
A bunk have I;
A couch of feath'ry down fills up the same;
Mine's straw, but dry.
She sinks to rest at night without a sigh;
With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love her daily dinner takes in state;
And so do I;
The richest viands flank her plate;
Coarse grub have I.
Pure wines she sips at ease her thirst to slake;
I pump my drink from Erie's limpid lake.
My love has all the world at will to roam;
Three acres I;
She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home;
So cannot I.
Bright angels watch around her couch at night;
A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
A thousand weary miles stretch between
My love and I;
To her, this wintry night, cold, calm, serene,
I waft a sigh,
And hope, with all my earnestness of soul,
To-morrow's mail may bring me my parole.
There's hope ahead: we'll one day meet again,
My love and I;
We'll wipe away all tears of sorrow then;
Her love-lit eye
Will all my many troubles then beguile,
And keep this wayward reb from Johnson's Isle.
[Illustration: STUCK!]