What, tears? Come, youngster, I can’t bear
Ter see yer take on so, and sob.
How came yer so bad off, my son?
Father was killed? ’Sho’; whar? Bull Run?
Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad,
And got used up, too, pretty bad;
I shan’t forgit old ’sixty-one!
So yer were left in Bosting, hey!
A baby when he went away?
Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife,