For one rash act,—'twas counted bravery,
Good fortune made a corporal of me.
Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm,
I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm.
Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field
Before my wounds had been completely healed.
I carry yet, and shall until I die,
A musket ball, encysted in my thigh.
Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner
Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war.