Far away in the piny woods,
Where the dews fall heavy and damp,
A soldier sat by the smouldering fire
And sang the song of the camp.
"It is not to be weary and worn,
It is not to feel hunger and thirst,
It is not the forced march, nor the terrible fight,
That seems to the soldier the worst;
"But to sit through the comfortless hours,—
The lonely, dull hours that will come—
With his head in his hands, and his eyes on the fire,
And his thoughts on visions of home;
"To wonder how fares it with those
Who mingled so late with his life,—
Is it well with my little children three?
Is it well with my sickly wife?
-J. R. M.