Our Preudence hed, thet wouldn't pour (all she could du) to suit her; Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so's not a drop 'ould dreen out, Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out, The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea an' kiver 'ould all come down _kerswosh!_ ez though the dam bust in a river. Jest so 'tis here; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather, 70 An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be a layin' heads together Ez t' how they'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot,-- 'Twould pour ez though the lid wuz off the everlastin' teapot. The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed to leave here, One piece o' propaty along, an' thet's the shakin' fever; It's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one, Nor 'taint so tiresome ez it wuz with t'other leg an' arm on; An' it's a consolation, tu, although it doosn't pay, To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way. 'Tworn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin',-- 80 One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin',-- One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes,-- Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes. But then, thinks I, at any rate there's glory to be hed,-- Thet's an investment, arter all, thet mayn't turn out so bad; But somehow, wen we'd fit an' licked, I ollers found the thanks Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks; The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on,-- _We_ never gat a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on; An' spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to contrive its 90 Division so's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits; Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one, You wouldn't git more 'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun; We git the licks,--we're jest the grist thet's put into War's hoppers; Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers. It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in 't, An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in 't; But glory is a kin' o' thing _I_ sha'n't pursue no furder, Coz thet's the off'cers' parquisite,--yourn's on'y jest the murder.