At last when the policeman shall come in some day,
And gather the “rimnants” that I’ve thrown away,
And bears the old rubbish to the heap down below,
Along with the rest in the dust and the snow,
You’ll see them there lying, producers of ease
Sad, lonely, neglected, my old Reveilles.
Others and newer may take their old place,
And with plenteous blacking shine smiles in my face,
My feet will look smaller and better perhaps,
But in the sweet slumbers that come after Taps,