Each with his big overcoat ’round him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
We spoke not a sentence of sorrow,
But steadfastly gazed on the place that was dead
And bitterly long’d for the morrow!
We thought, as we lay on our primitive bed,
An old sand-pump reel for a pillow,
How friends, foes and strangers were heartily bled
And ruin swept on like a billow!
Lightly we slept, for we dreamt of the scamp,